My Final Mistake (2018)
by AlyssaRuin
Summary: She had lost everything; had been brought to a time that was not her own, for a reason unknown, taken in by a painter who was long dead, in a city filled with people who believed she was another. Then she met the Auditores. Swept into a world of art, mystery, magic and death, she must learn to trust a man who stands for everything she despises, if she is to survive. /abandoned
1. Prologue

The coffin was so small.

It sat deep within the grave of dirt, where it would lie for all time in the dark cold of the earth.

The smooth mahogany was decorated with flowers of red and blue. The colours of his favourite superhero. A small toy truck with flaking yellow paint and a rusted edge glinted up from the depths. A soft toy rabbit, nearly furless, and with a button for an eye to replace the one it had lost so many years ago, sat beside it. It wasn't enough.

I wished it would rain.

I wished that I would catch a cold and lightning would strike my flesh.

I wished I would burn.

The winter winds tore at the skin of my arms as I stared into the grave of my little brother.

The sun was bright in the sky, its golden beams a slap in the face. The light glinted off the dark speckled stone of the headstone.

_Thomas James Raso._

_Aged 10._

_We will miss you until the end of time._

The gaping hole that was my chest bled openly. I wished the wound would kill me.

I wished I could plunge headfirst into the dark hole and crawl into that small coffin. I would hold him as we were buried together beneath the earth.

Then he wouldn't be scared. Then he wouldn't be alone.

My sister stood behind me. Where she had come from or how long she had stood there, I didn't know.

She was not there as comfort, but as vengeance incarnate.

There was blood. So much blood.

It should have been me.

She thought so too.

Through the pain and the blood and the rage that followed, there was a single moment of significance. A single object. A single decision.

A sphere of golden light thrumming with an alien energy sang through the encroaching darkness. My hand fell onto its surface and it seared through time and space and I succumbed to the fiery dark I had wished for.

"Tommy…" was the name that filled my last breath.

My little brother.

My final mistake.

/

/

_I will make it known now - I will never finish this story. But it has been sitting in my documents for years and that's not fair to my younger self - she put a lot of love and effort into this thing, so here we go._


	2. The Arrival

_"__So it's true, when all is said and done, grief is the price we pay for love."_ – E.A Bucchianeri.

Her death was quick, and it was easy. She sank into it like a soft blanket, some part of her knowing something was definitely wrong, while another told her everything was going to be okay. She found that death came naturally; it was somehow instinctual. Her brain and body did all it could to protect her until the very end. And then she was gone.

In the darkness that followed, there was no pain; no sound, no thought, no consciousness. She was there but she was not. There was no body or mind to hold her. She was at once, everything and nothing.

Hours passed. Months, perhaps. A moment became a year, and then a decade. Centuries gave way to millennia. And all the while, there was simply nothing.

Then there came a light, and with it a world.

Cobblestones laid themselves upon a winding street; brilliant red tiles slid into place upon the roofs of buildings, and all around, columns; pilasters, arches, niches, and domes morphed into place.

Pale, featureless humanoid beings sprung from the cobblestone streets and tore themselves from the sides of buildings; and were moulded like clay into something vaguely human.

Colourful material was layered and wrapped around them as their forms differentiated into the genders and races of humanity, and then further diversifying into the various shapes and sizes until each was a unique being.

And these creations suddenly sprung into life, and she was then surrounded by hundreds of living and breathing people, who went about their business as if they had not just been brought into the world only moments before.

This world was given a sun, and a sky which stretched out above her. From this sky, snow fell like rose petals which settled upon the dirt on the ground, and a cold wind blew the rancid stench of humanity through the streets of this city which thrummed with vibrancy and colour and life.

Yet still, she was nothing.

There was a woman in the crowd who stood out amongst all the rest. She stared into the crowds, her brown eyes filled with contempt and regret, and beyond these, heartache.

Despite this, her face was smooth and pleasant, her pretty mouth twisted into a gentle smile, and her stance was composed and completely at ease. She was aware of how her rich jewels glittered in the winter sunlight; how her thick raven hair caught the delicate snowflakes like diamonds, and how her deep green cloak fell majestically around her.

Vain as she was, her confidence in her own appearance was not unwarranted, as proven by the gaze of the man who now approached her. He looked upon the woman as if there were not another person on this earth, and she shivered at the look of deep passion in his eyes.

The lovers fell into an intimate embrace, hardly appropriate for such a public viewing, and yet they caught no judgemental looks as they stood together in the snow, each wrapped around the other so tightly that the winds could not touch them, as they whispered words meant only for their ears.

His hand was on her waist, on her shoulder, in her hair. It disappeared beneath the soft folds of her cloak, and she slapped him away, laughing, with a secret promise in her eyes. With him, the derision and the pain fell away, and she was filled with peace. She pressed her cheek to his and closed her eyes, wishing they could stay like this forever; holding each other in the first snow of winter, endlessly and entirely happy.

But it was not to be.

The woman's hand fell from his chest. Her head slumped forward. Her body became limp in his arms. Her breath left her in a mist which curled around his jaw like a caress, and then drifted off into the wind.

_"__Marietta." _

His voice was low in her ear. But there was no one there to hear it.

It had been but a moment. The girl who was Marietta, who had spun with her lover in the snow, who had been sad and content, was gone. And in that instant, the girl who had been nothing took her place.

She drew in a breath of frozen air, and choked on it.

"Marietta, are you alright?" the man asked her, a smile in his voice.

She was not smiling.

Her body was concrete; her extremities impossibly difficult to move. Bricks had been tied to her eyelids, and her neck was a wilted stem. The knowledge and the memory of the darkness faded as consciousness returned and thoughts bombarded her with relentless vigour.

Everything hurt as she continued to choke with lungs that were unfamiliar and new. Her body, held upright only by the man's strong arms wrapped around it, spasmed as it tried to reject her.

She was not welcome. She did not belong.

The man's smile fell as he felt her body's unnatural movements, but she couldn't hear his concerned calls.

Something was forcing her in, pulling and pushing until she felt as if her being had been violently stretched, like a child would stretch a balloon, before she was blown up and twisted into a shape that was not her own. It locked her in place; an invisible rope holding her within this form. Unnatural and agonising though it was, she stayed.

"Marietta, answer me."

She could move her eyes. That is the first thing she remembered.

He caught her gaze, his face filled with apprehension and confusion. Then she twitched a finger. Fire seared through her every nerve, from her fingernails to the arch of her feet, and she gasped, almost choking again.

She felt his heat over her, oppressive and overwhelming and she struggled away from his comforting hands and his gentle, concerned eyes, tripping over her long green cloak and stumbling into a group of people who shouted in surprise.

Flinching away, her head spun as she remembered how to stand, and how to breathe and how to move her hands.

It wasn't until long black hair fell into her eyes that she realised that this was not her cloak, and this was not her hair and these hands she now wiggled before her eyes were much smaller than she remembered.

"Marietta!"

The man's voice was behind her, and she realised she was moving away, through market stalls and beneath archways and down alleyways and into crowds. She didn't run; she couldn't but quickly still she moved. Her thighs and calves and shoulders and back were agony, her vision was red and blurred, her mind a vortex of confusion.

Bile filled her mouth as she swept through the masses, her thoughts too jumbled to come to a decision on which way to go, or what to do even as she turned this way and that, quickly becoming lost in the strange, darkening streets. She could no longer hear the man's desperate calls. Her movements were sluggish and disjointed. She shivered, awkwardly wrapping her arms around herself; tucking her chin beneath the fur line of the cloak.

On she stumbled through endless cobblestone streets, vomiting once down a wall, barely avoiding spoiling her clothes before she moved on, the bitter tang of sick thick in her mouth. Fatigue caused her to stagger, her head spinning; suddenly light and filled with air even as her body filled with rocks. Lethargically, she made her way to an empty stone bench beside a pile of crates, and there she collapsed and huddled, an awful mix of fire and ice as snow fell upon her.

She wrapped the cloak around her, tucking it beneath her and drawing up her legs. The soft slippers she wore were soaked through and every inch of her skin that was not throbbing with pain, was numb. Pressing her hands together beneath the tent of her cloak, she felt the fingers and the nails and the wrists, and none were as she remembered. They had once been thick and strong, and now they were soft and weak. Yet how could these not be her hands, if they were her hands?

These hands roamed; found further discrepancies. And nothing made sense. Her mind and memory were in tatters.

She wanted to vomit again, but instead water filled her eyes and rolled down her cheeks, spattering the dark green of the cloak. Lowering her head, she rocked herself gently, her face buried in smooth material as she hid from the world and waited to awaken from this nightmare.

She didn't know for how long she sat, but eventually, her neck strained as it straightened, and her red, itchy eyes found the streets were dark and abandoned. A frozen wind numbed her face and she shivered violently, the snow having soaked through the cloak and now leaving it as useful as a wet blanket. Her body ached with exhaustion. It was difficult to imagine ever moving from where she sat.

As she gazed up at the full moon shining above her amongst a sea of glittering stars, she dimly wondered if it would be better if she fell asleep here and froze to death. Her fingers had lost all feeling and creaked when she tried to move them. The cold seeped through the arms of her dress and up her legs; she felt it spread across her chest and she shivered. Licking her lips, she felt them numb and dry on her face. Her eyes fluttered, struggling to stay open as frost coated her lashes. Yes, she supposed she was going to die here on this frozen bench in this dark, unknown street. But she was too far gone to care.

It was then that she became aware of the presence of another, sitting beside her on the icy bench.

The little girl had appeared silently, and in her delirium, she could not recall whether she had seen her arrive. The young child sat calmly, dressed in a dirty brown dress which hung from her slight shoulders, the dark colour a dramatic contrast against her pale grey skin. The bones of her elbows, wrists and knees were far too prominent; though she was small, her limbs were sickly thin. Her head seemed large in comparison, and limp black hair hung like string from her scalp.

"You are cold," the girl said, the sound distorted in the haze.

Her new companion's head turned to look upon her with large eyes; her irises burned in her skull, the rich, deep and vibrant colour of fire, and she stared unblinkingly.

"You should try to keep warm."

She tried to speak but couldn't move her blue lips. The young girl smiled encouragingly, her mouth stretched impossibly wide; her thin lips peeling back over dirty, crooked teeth.

Her mind couldn't keep up with her own movements, let alone properly register the horrible appearance of the creature beside her. She hadn't the energy to be frightened.

Though she could see her body, she could no longer feel her extremities. Her head was floating somewhere above her shoulders and her heartbeat was silent. She was sure that she would be blown away by the icy winds. There was nothing left of her. Her body stopped shivering.

The girl beside her sighed, "Unacceptable"

The young girl's thin, grey hand reached up and brushed across her forehead, and where she touched, the frozen skin caught alight and sudden searing, agonising heat spread, scorching across her face and down her neck, across her shoulders and beyond til it felt as if her blood her lava and her flesh were smouldering embers. As her every vein stretched wide to accommodate the boiling blood which seared through her limbs, her mind screamed with pain. And then a mushroom of sound, thick in her ears formed into two words.

"Jessica. Forget."


	3. A New Life

_"Life is a blank canvas, and you need to throw all the paint on it you can." – Danny Kaye_

She was very confused.

Well, that was quite an understatement. However, in her current state of being very confused, she couldn't quite think of any other words to describe the utter and complete _confusion _that she was in the midst of experiencing.

She considered the stone bench she had awoken upon; bland and grey and quite usual for a stone bench as it was. And then she considered the street she stood in; a snowy cobblestone road lined with buildings of pale stone and red tiles, their faces decorated with arches and pilasters and niches unlike any she had ever seen.

Next she considered the people who walked this street; they wore intricate clothes of material and style she had no words to describe. Both men and women alike wore stunning colours, and most strikingly, each gave off the distinct and ripe stench of old perfume and sweat.

Finally, she considered herself, having the uncomfortable feeling that something about her was _off. _Yet, as she inspected her olive skin, her long black hair and her hands, the only aspect of herself that was in any way peculiar was what she was wearing; a dress as strangely styled as the women around her, a fine necklace of jewels at her throat, and a warm velvet cloak tied around her shoulders.

Once she had considered all of these things, she allowed her attention to be drawn to the white blanket of snow around her feet, and the snowflakes that floated like fluff from the grey skies above. Reaching out to touch one as it drifted past her face, she felt it land on her skin, sit a moment, and then collapse into a puddle of water.

It was then she felt the chill of the winter, in her nose and her cheeks and also her feet, and she knew that though she was hopelessly confused and unsure as to whether she had ever seen such surroundings as this before, she was certain that never in her life had she seen snow.

She kicked at the pile at her feet and shivered, thinking that it was silly of her to have never imagined snow to be this cold. She supposed it would look nice draped across a bridge, or on the branches of a tree, compared to the dirty ground of a city street, but to her, in this moment of bewilderment, perplexity, puzzlement and mystification, never had she seen anything so bizarrely beautiful. She shook the gathering snow from her shoulders and slowly wandered down the street, gazing about in wide eyed wonder.

The further she travelled the surer she became that she had no idea where she was; never had she seen this church, never this tower, never this square, never such winding streets and arched balconies. With each step, she felt the chilly veil of wonder and excitement slip from her mind to be replaced with what she could only describe as steadily surmounting panic.

She could now feel the uncomfortable icy cold on her skin; how it bit at her cheeks and nipped at her lungs as she breathed. And yet, she could find no warm cafe to slip into, no shop that she could duck within to find her bearings and ask for directions.

She searched for familiarity; a street sign, a car, a phone booth, but there was nothing to help ground her in this place. There were no street lights, no information booths, no tour guides, and no police. Pulling the cloak around her, she could not believe what her mind was telling her; this did not make sense.

She walked and walked, convinced that she would soon stumble upon a brightly lit Christmas tree, or a bus sign or a taxi, or simply a person dressed as she was used to people being dressed, but there was nothing.

She paused on a street corner and drew in a long, shaky breath, her hands trembling beneath the blanket of her cloak. Now as she looked around, her eyes were filled with naught but trepidation. There was not one aspect of this that followed any kind of logic and she tried to believe that this must mean that she was in a dream. Yet her feet burned numb with the cold snow, and the stench of the alleyway nearby stung her nostrils and all that she felt was far too real to be a nightmare. And yet, it made_ no sense. _She could not be standing in the snowy street in a city she had never before seen. She could not be dressed in clothes she had never bought. She could not be so lost and frightened and alone. But she was.

She had no idea what she was supposed to do, had nowhere to go and no one to go to. She wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball and hide until she woke up in a place where things made sense.

And then a voice called to her.

Startled, she turned to peer down the dark alley beside her, and at the very end of it she could see a young girl. From a distance, she saw the girl was very thin, with lanky dark hair and skin as pale as the snow at her feet. She felt the moment the child's gaze met her own; goosebumps speckled her skin and every fine hair on her body stood erect.

The alleyway in which the young girl stood seemed eerily still, and the girl even more so. Her mind was made up at once to leave the mouth of the alley and hurry as fast as she could in the opposite direction. The young girl's head tilted slightly, her small, skeletal arm rose from her side, and she beckoned her closer. Without a thought, she stepped inside the alley, and slowly made her way toward the child.

Deeper into the alley she walked, stepping in puddles of filth and tripping over discarded sacks and piles of broken crates, her throat closed tight and every instinct in her screaming to run. Still, she pressed on, unable to say exactly why. At the end of the alleyway, the child's arm fell, and she turned on her heel, disappearing around the corner, another opening into the dim road.

Hurrying after the strange child, she all but burst out into the populated street, and in her haste she failed to notice the man walking briskly along, that is, until the moment she crashed into him.

* * *

"Oh!"

"Santo cielo! I am so sorry! It was entirely my fault, Signorina, I'm sure. I-"

"No, no, I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you alright?"

"Signorina Sanfilippo?"

They froze, staring at each other.

She was firstly aware of the two enormous eyes with which he stared at her, as blue as a spring sky. Then she saw his light brown hair, his small nose speckled with freckles, and his brilliant red beret with matching cape. There was lace at his throat, and his attire was as unfamiliar and intricate as any other she had seen. But he looked at her with a recognition she hadn't expected.

"My God! What happened? You look terrible!"

"What?" she stammered.

"Please," he stepped toward her, gently taking her arm as if the slightest bump might cause her to shatter. "My workshop is nearby. Let me take you there so you might rest while I fetch help."

She was entirely too stunned to resist as the man, who could barely be older than herself, led her quickly but delicately down one street and then the next, guiding her up a short flight of stairs, round another few turns, until they reached small plaza with an orange tree situated in the middle, on the far side of which sat a building with a solid brown door. It was here that the strange and insistent young man stopped.

She should have struggled away then - this was anything but safe -, and yet it was so cold outside. How could she miss the chance to be indoors and to be warm, to sit safe from the biting chill and figure out what was happening? Any other possibility of danger, she was sure she could contend with when the time came.

So she stayed when the man released her momentarily to unlock and open the door. He then gathered her inside and directed her to sit in a rather comfortable in the smaller of the two armchairs by a large fireplace.

"I shall fetch you some water, Signora."

As the man disappeared further into his house, she watched after him wearily, slowly removing her rather wet cloak and taking the moment to look around.

To the right of the front door was a steep staircase leading to the upper floor; down the few steps from the landing was the main workshop floor, apparent by the large wooden scaffold to the right, upon which half-finished paintings sat stacked beside lumps of clay and stone, and the large workbench covered in piles of papers, various feathered quills, inkwells, books and small but rather impressive sculptures.

Beyond the workbench was a wall of shelves, filled with thick, richly bound books. On the wall beside the fireplace was a wooden board that held papers – no, thicker, more like parchment - covered in anatomical drawings, strangely slanted writing and sketches.

Light streamed through high arched windows situated above the bookshelves, bathing the room in a warm glow. Rugs dull with dust and dirt hugged the filthy stone ground. In all, it was a haphazard mess.

Her attention turned to the man, now returning, carrying what appeared to be water in a mug made of metal. She took the offered beverage but didn't drink it. Instead she stared at him in quiet and rather awkward speculation, trying to think if she had ever actually met him before.

"Are you alright, Signora?" the man asked, sinking in to the armchair beside hers. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

She hesitated a moment before answering. "No, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? I could get you something to eat, perhaps?" A thought came to him. "I must send word to Signor Auditore that you have been found. He had guards searching for you all night. It will be a great relief for him to know that you are safe. I shall call for a courier at once."

"Wait!"

At her cry, he stopped halfway through the motion of standing from his chair, and looked at her in surprise. "Signora?"

Her heart was fluttering in her chest and her mind raced as she stared at his inquisitive expression. It was clear to her troubled mind that she had no idea who this man was; however he seemed to have a certain notion about who _she _was. This was concerning to say the least. What had he called her? Signora Sanfilippo? Was that her name?

As the man was still waiting for her to reply, she smiled feebly at him and said, "I just want to rest a moment. Just... wait."

He slid back into his chair with a confused but - to her surprise - obedient nod. "Of course, Signorina. As you wish."

She watched him for a moment as he noticed the dim fire, moving forward to throw more logs on the spluttering flame and poking at it with the metal poker until it caught. He brushed off his hands, noticed her gaze and promptly blushed deeply.

"I will fetch you something to eat. You must be starving," he stumbled over his words, and then over the armchair as he hurried beyond the archway beside the staircase, which she presumed led to the kitchen. She felt herself smile at his clumsiness, but caught herself before it had a chance to grow. There was no time for amusement. She had found herself in a delicate position and now she had to think.

It was clear that this man believed her to be someone by the name of Signorina Sanfilippo. The name wasn't familiar to her, and so she had to assume that she was not the same woman. The man also knew others who might also believe her to be the Signorina, but under the likelihood that they would know at once that she was not, it was in her best interest to _not _meet these people. Or else she might be tossed out into the street, cold and alone and lost once more.

The guilt which momentarily possessed her mind was forced away by thoughts of survival. This could be her one chance for safety and security and warmth. She would figure out the rest later.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden tingle, like pins and needles shooting across her left palm and curling up her arm, dissipating at her elbow. She drew a quick breath and winced but there was no time to dwell upon it as the man in the red beret returned, this time laden with a metal plate of bread, cheese and what appeared to be some sort of preserved fruit. She massaged her left hand absentmindedly as she watched him.

He placed the tray on the small, round table between the armchairs, and then settled back in his chair.

"Thank you."

"It is the least I can do, Signorina."

Though her stomach was in turmoil, she decided it would be rude not to partake in what he had graciously offered, and she found that the familiar motion of eating steadily relaxed her. Once all was finished, she cleared her throat and held his attention.

"I don't intend to return to Signor Auditore's home tonight," she began stiffly, tripping slightly on the pronunciation of 'Auditore', but she forced herself on. "I would ask that you be so kind as to allow me to stay here the night... if you have room."

She had never seen an expression of such incredible shock as was displayed upon the man's face in all her life. Under any other circumstances, she would have laughed at the sight of it.

As it was, her every muscle was taut, her jaw strained and her bones ached as she watched his mouth flutter and strange sounds escape his throat before at last he stammered in a voice an octave higher than before, "O-of course, Signorina. You are always welcome. I do have aroom free, though it is hardly fit for a lady of your stature."

"I don't mind," she quickly assured him. "Anything you have will be perfect."

"I—Of course. I will need to tidy up and... and prepare. If you'll excuse me, I need to—Please, make yourself at home. I will return...Signorina."

Now seeing the man all but flee upstairs, she did feel quite guilty indeed. He had reacted to her request – rather firm though it was –, as if she had demanded it of him; as though there were simply no other choice but to accept.

She waited a few moments, wondering if he would be back, but the sounds which soon followed – heavy grunts, loud scrapes and the sound of several things being dropped at once, one of which came bouncing down the stairs and rolled off into a dark corner of the room – convinced her otherwise. Finishing her rather metallic tasting water, she pulled the armchair slightly closer to the fire, and waited.

* * *

The light had ceased its travels through the arched windows by the time the man once again descended the stairs. Now only the light of the fire illuminated the large room, and, having found no light switches or other source of light, she had curled up on the armchair, placing aside the now dry green velvet cloak, and sat safe in the warm light of the fire.

She tried not to show the ebbing fear that the absolute darkness of the room was sowing within her breast, but her wide eyes and shallow breaths surely gave it away. She was baffled however, for she had never before been afraid of the dark. Yet now, seeing it gave her a feeling of terrible emptiness. And there was nothing that she could do to wish it away.

So she sat, in perfect terror, not that something might jump out of the darkness and attack her, but that the darkness itself would swoop down and take her into itself until she was nothing but a shadow. What exactly had caused this newfound phobia, she could not say.

She watched, perfectly still, as the man moved through the darkness, the candle in his hand pushing back the dark tendrils of shadowy night. He looked into her face only briefly before turning and hurrying about the room, lighting the sconces on the wall one by one until at last the room was filled with light and the strange emptiness which had settled in her chest and choked her until she was paralysed with fear, abated, and she could breathe easily once more.

She clasped her trembling hands together and gave him a look of gratitude, not trusting her voice. His eyes were gentle as he nodded in acknowledgement, blowing out the candle in his hand.

"Are you hungry, Signorina? I could prepare supper, if you wish."

She drew in a deep breath, filling her lungs, and then shook her head. "No, thank you. I'm just very tired." And it was true; she was unsteady with fatigue. Now that the strange fear had subsided, the emotional trauma of the day had finally taken all that it could from her, and she could think of nothing else but rest.

"Of course. If you will follow me, your room is... prepared." He said this with a wince, as if he believed the word to be lacking... or perhaps an overstatement. But she didn't mind either way. She only wished for a bed, a pillow and a blanket, and then the sweet escape of sleep.

She followed him up the steep staircase which led to a short hallway with three closed doors, two on the left and one on the right. It was the door on the right that he opened to her, revealing a small room with a window on the back wall, which she discovered had a rather nice view of the cobblestone street, the snowy tiled roofs and a large expanse of sky littered with stars; a simple bed sat on the left wall, a small bedside table beside it, and a heavy looking chest of drawers sat against the wall opposite.

It appeared clean, and there was no offensive or discernible smell to the room, and there was a bed present. That was all she needed to know.

"If you need anything, my room is just down the hall."

"Thank you."

"Goodnight, Signorina."

"Goodnight."

He closed the door gently, still looking wide eyed and rather overwhelmed, and she listened as he scampered down the stairs. Then all was silent.

She let out a deep breath, sinking onto the thin mattress, hearing it crunch under her weight. Poking it with a furrowed brow, she wondered how she was supposed to sleep on a bed of straw.

Removing the outmost layer of her dress and unclasping the jewels from her neck, she eased herself down, gritting her teeth at the near flat pillow, the rough material of the blankets and the cold of the room. The flickering of the flame on the candle beside her bed caught her eye and she turned on her side, watching it dance as she forced herself to not think about her room at home, or her family, or the horrible empty feeling in her chest.

Pulling her legs up, she cocooned her body within the blankets, folded the pillow so it was half the size but double the thickness, and then stared at the light until her eyelids grew too heavy to hold open any longer. She fell asleep hoping with all of her might that when she woke up, she would be home, where she belonged, and this nightmare would be over.

* * *

Her sleep was troubled, more so than ever before, and the discomfort brought about by the straw mattress and pillow, as well as the biting cold, only added to her restlessness.

Though still exhausted, she eventually could stand it no longer and drew herself up, rubbing sore eyes and stretching stiff muscles. Her shoulder ached something terrible and she winced as she drew the dress over her head and slipped on the soft brown shoes.

After straightening the blanket, which had proven far warmer than she had expected, she paused to gaze out the window, squinting in the morning light. Her chest tightened.

So, she was still here. This wasn't a dream.

Voices downstairs drew her toward the door and she slipped through it quietly, making her way to the top of the stairs and pausing there to listen. She rubbed her arms absentmindedly as a cool wind blew past her, and she saw the man in the red beret standing by the open front door.

"Ah, Madonna! So good to see you," she heard him say in a voice far less strained than as when he spoke to her.

"Buon giorno, Leonardo," came a woman's reply. "This is my son, Ezio."

"A pleasure," Leonardo greeted.

There was a low response that she could not catch, and then the woman inquired, "Have you got the paintings I asked for?"

"Ah! Yes, of course. Just a moment."

Leonardo turned and she drew back so that he could not see her eavesdropping. There were noises in the workshop and then he returned to the door with a crate full of painted canvases. She saw him glance toward the stairs before more words were exchanged between he and his guests, and then the front door fell shut, a lock was turned, and the house was silent. She was alone.

After waiting several long moments, listening to hear if he would return, she slowly made her way down the stairs.

She was first aware of the warmth of the room, then of the heady smell of paint, sawdust and leather in the air. Hesitantly, she moved toward the desks and the shelves she had seen the night before, her eyes running over titles in Latin, English, and Italian. There didn't seem to be any sort of categorisation, and many books were upside down or lying on their side. She kicked at a mess of papers on the floor, watching a broken pencil roll away.

The parchment on the board was written in a scrawled hand, but it was clearly not English, nor were any of the letters on the desks. Shuffling gently through them, she came across studies of plants, animals, and human anatomy, some with notes on the edges of the sketch, and others on the page alone.

She picked up a pen, finding that it was more a quill than a biro, and she sniffed at the corked glass of ink near it, swirling the dark liquid within. There was a chest full of oils, and another full of coloured minerals, and yet another full of brushes. It wasn't hard to figure that the man was an artist.

Moving to the drawers of the desk, she began to delicately rifle through, glancing briefly at the doorway to make sure the man in question wasn't about to burst through and catch her snooping around. An envelope caught her eye and she picked it up, finding it half crumpled and empty, but addressed to Signor Leonardo Da Vinci, in Firenze.

She paused, staring unmoving for a long moment, her eyes tracing over each letter of every word, before she abruptly threw it back into the draw and pushed it firmly shut.

"Bullshit," she mumbled to herself, shaking her head and moving on with her search.

But her mind kept returning to those words, undeterred by her dismissing them as nonsensical. Even as she finished in the workshop and moved onto exploring other parts of the house, finding first a small but serviceable kitchen, a closet filled with artist's junk, and a washroom with a simple metal tub beside a table laden with various bowls, cloths and jugs, she couldn't get it out of her head.

She moved into the kitchen and, after opening every cupboard door and drawer, eventually found all she needed to make herself some semblance of breakfast. She carried her small meal into the workshop and made herself comfortable on the armchair where her green cloak still hung, gazing at the glowing embers of the fire as she ate.

Once done, she placed the plate aside, sat back in the chair and sighed deeply, closing her eyes, "What am I doing?"

She sat still for a long moment, simply breathing, wishing for an answer to come to her; for someone to appear and simply explain everything in a way that made any sense. But nothing did. And when she opened her eyes, she was still sitting in the workshop in front of the fire, and all she could do was shake her head morosely, thinking longingly of her home as she heaved herself to her feet and looked around for something to busy herself with.

* * *

If Leonardo noticed that she had spent the larger part of the day sweeping and straightening things up, he did not mention it. In fact, he appeared to not notice her at all until she stood from the chair near the fire, putting aside the book on birds she had been half-reading, and cleared her throat.

He started with a yelp, jumping to face her, his beret nearly falling from his head. "Signorina! I did not realise you were still here."

Her stomach dropped at the look in his eyes, and she shifted awkwardly, forcing herself not to wring her hands. "I'm sorry, I should have said something."

"No, no," he protested, licking his lips as if they were suddenly dry, and feverishly avoiding eye contact. "I was distracted, it is entirely my fault. Mi dispiace." Once he calmed, he moved to position himself behind his work desk. A move that she saw as rather defensive. Did she really scare him that badly? "I trust you slept well?"

She was quiet as she watched him. He could barely look her in the eye. He was tense and uncomfortable and she felt absolutely awful for making him so in his own home. Yet, what choice did she have?

"I slept well, thank you."

His gaze met hers fleetingly, surprise in his blue eyes, before they flittered away, and he picked up a book on his desk, flicked through the pages and then put it down again. Her morals and good nature screamed for her to leave at once. He clearly wanted nothing to do with her. But she knew he was her only chance to stay out of the cold. Perhaps if he could be convinced that she was not as terrible a guest as he seemed to believe, then perhaps he could be convinced to let her stay.

In silence she observed him, and knew he felt her eyes most keenly. What could she possibly say to him? What could she offer? She scowled at the fact that she had no idea what she could do.

It had become clear to her that day that not only could she not remember how she had come to be here, in what she now believed to be Firenze, in Italy, but neither could she remember her name, or who she was supposed to be. She clearly recalled her family; her sister, brother and mother. She knew their faces and their names. She knew the name of the school she had attended and the town she had lived. But attempts to recall any further personal details proved to be futile. She could not remember a thing about herself, beyond the fact that she missed her family and her home most terribly.

"I'm not sure I thanked you properly for letting me stay."

"Oh," he stammered, waving an arm about and laughing tightly. "There is no need. It was my honour to have you grace my humble workshop."

Her brow furrowed, wondering if that was supposed to be a slight, but he appeared to be sincere.

"Is there anything I can get for you, Signorina?" he offered politely as the silence between them dragged on. "Some wine, perhaps?"

Her frown deepened, frustration building at the fact that she was apparently socially inept and incapable of finding the right words. How could she not think of a single thing to say to him?

"No, I'm fine, thank you, Leonardo," was her absentminded and weak reply. She dropped her eyes, staring at her clenched hands and the folds of her dress.

She became quite certain then that she was an absolute moron.

She had managed to fake her way through the night, as well as the morning; successful in her determination not to panic, not to dwell on the impossibility of her situation. Not to think on the fact that none of this made any sense and her very life was now entirely dependent on the uncertain generosity of a man she didn't know, who had no reason to show her any kindness nor apparently had any inclination to.

The urge to burst into helplessly pathetic tears bubbled within her, but she crushed it, the mere effort alone bringing an intense pressure to her head and causing her entire being to tremble. She squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the deep emptiness in her chest like a physical presence, poking and prodding and taunting her with her own helplessness.

She had no idea what to do, or how she had come to be where she was, nor the answer to any question she should know the answer to. But crying would not help her now. Crying wouldn't help her find her way home.

The thought struck her suddenly, and she felt as if a bucket of cool water had been thrown over her. That was it. That's what she had to do.

"Signorina?"

Her eyes opened at his careful tone, and trained to meet his gaze. She felt the tightness in her muscles, and the strain of her clenched hands, and knew she must look a sight, standing there trembling with barely contained emotion. She must look absolutely deranged. She almost chuckled.

Everything was so uncertain. She had no way of knowing if this man was kind, or cruel, or if he would even give the idea of allowing her to stay a single thought. She had no idea why she was here, or who she was supposed to be. But she realised she had a solid goal, something to move toward, something to keep her going amongst all the uncertainty and confusion and doubt: she had to get home.

The thought stood out amongst the swirling, inky waters of her mind like a lighthouse, solid and bright and meaningful. She felt its impact at once, the pressure leaving her mind, the tension leaving her body, her features relaxing and her clawed fingers uncurling. Her lungs drew in a deep breath, and she tried not to think of how much it had scared her to feel so hopeless.

She let out her breath slowly, keeping Leonardo's stare. She had to get home. And to do that, she had to survive long enough to find it.

Feeling as if she had just found victory in a great battle, fought in the depths of her own psyche, she discovered the will to bring a smile to her face.

"I took the liberty of having a look around your workshop today, and I have to say, you are very talented." She tried to ignore the way her voice trembled slightly, and cleared her throat, willing herself to composure.

If Leonardo had looked wary before, he now looked positively unnerved. His mouth opened several times before he could speak. "T-thank you, Signorina. You are most kind."

"I speak only the truth." She grew more confident as her voice came out steady and strong. "I particularly like the studies you have made of the human anatomy. This one here," she said, entirely sincere as she moved to stand in front of the board of parchments on the wall, pointing out the study in question, "of the shoulder is very well done. How is it that you are able to achieve such detail in the muscles and tendons?"

She stared openly at the artist, hoping desperately that her approach would prove successful. What better way was there to get on someone's good side than to show an interest in their work and an admiration for their skill?

Her theory was supported when not a few moments later, Leonardo's eyes, though still hooded with doubt, lit to a lighter shade of blue, and he moved slowly around the workbench and then over to stand near her, keeping a polite distance.

"I simply draw what it is I see. The city kindly donates," he hesitated, "_models,_ which allow a greater degree of investigation into the workings of the human body that I would otherwise be able."

She looked at him, confused. "Models?" How would he be able to see muscles and tendons on a model? Unless, of course they were-

"Cadavers," he specified.

Her eyebrows rose at the idea. "The city supplies dead bodies for you to dissect?"

"Yes. They are a great advantage to my work."

She decided not to ask whether or not the families of the dead he was given to take apart in his quest for knowledge were consulted - she wasn't quite sure she would like the answer.

"So you study human anatomy so that you can use it as reference for your paintings?"

He nodded, "The human body is a fascinating machine with so many moving parts, all working in harmony, separately so fragile and seemingly insignificant and yet each vital to the overall design. So many people on this earth go their entire lives with no idea how the body they live in actually works. There is so much to learn from it. And it is beautiful. I apply what I observe to my work, not just paintings, but also sculptures and drawings. Else I simply add what I learn to my research. I hope one day to contribute my findings to the larger scientific community. In the meantime, I deal primarily in the arts, though I admit the line which separates my work from the sciences has become quite blurred."

She hummed her approval, admiring his answer. "And you do this work alone?"

He glanced at her, a faint blush on his cheeks as he realised he had gotten caught up in his explanation. It appeared he liked to talk.

"I only recently separated from my master, Andrea del Verrocchio, who has mentored me since I was a child. This is my first workshop, and thus far, Madonna Auditore has been my most generous patron. I am hoping to expand my business, of course, but as it stands, I haven't found any need to hire assistants. Not yet, anyway." He rubbed the back of his neck, chuckling awkwardly.

She nodded thoughtfully, watching him in the corner of her eye. She drew in a deep breath and held it, her hands shaking only slightly, her fingers wringing together in her nervousness. Forcing her tone to remain casual, she ventured, "And what would you say if I offered to be your first assistant?"

He was too shocked to react in any way but stare. His blue eyes roamed her face searchingly, at first appearing stunned, and then aggravated. She waited in apprehension for his reply, keeping her face honest and open, and hoping with all her might that he wouldn't simply send her away. Her heart beat forcefully in her breast as she held his gaze which had at last settled in an expression of dubious curiousity.

"I am most honoured by your offer, Signorina," he said carefully. "But what interest could you have in becoming the assistant of an artist such as I?" His blue eyes glittered inquisitively beneath his furrowed brow.

Trying to ignore her suddenly dry mouth, she swallowed hard and considered the question carefully. "I find your work intriguing. Your goals and ambitions are admirable, and I admire your skill. You intrigue me. And I ask that you allow me to assist you in your search to further your knowledge of humanity and the world, and also in your work as a talented artist. I ask that you let me stay." She finished, feeling out of breath.

A minute passed as he struggled to find a suitable response. "Signorina, I never knew you to have such an interest in my work, or in the arts at all." He shook his head, a deep line between his brows. "Forgive me, but I am finding it difficult to understand. I seem to recall that you once attended the revealing of Ser Verrocchio's _Baptism of Christ,_ with the Auditore family. And I remember you made your distaste for both the painting, as well as artists as a whole, _quite _clear." His eyes grew cold at the memory, and his voice was hard as stone. He was not a foolish or simple man. "My mentor was quite embarrassed, but what could he say against the cruel words of a noblewoman?"

She had no idea of what he spoke, but she felt her face flush with another's shame. Those icy eyes studied her and she grew tense beneath his piercing stare. Though she held no responsibility for any of what she was now accused, she felt thoroughly chastised by the man. And it was with this emotion that she said without missing a beat.

"And for that I am sorry. My words were arrogant and unkind and you and your master were undeserving of such callousness. Please believe that I am changed, and I honestly wish to reconcile my actions by assisting you with your work."

She was endlessly surprised at the words which came from her mouth. Never had she spoken with such eloquence. Her words were usually spattered with vulgar adjectives and sarcastic tone, yet now they travelled with smooth politeness and formality as she had only seen in old movies and books. This place was beginning to get to her.

As she thought this, the strange tingling appeared once again in her left arm, starting at the centre of her palm and spiralling toward her elbow, trickling up the back of her arm. Suppressing a violent wince, she drew her hands together and rubbed the flesh of her palm, her eyes never leaving Leonardo's.

"May I ask what your _aunt_ thinks of your offer?"

Aunt? She fell silent as she desperately tried to recall what would inspire such a dangerous emphasis of tone as Leonardo had used when referring to this aunt. Of course, she could think of nothing, for she could not even remember the aunt of which he spoke. Her parents had no siblings. Their family had been small. Yet the way he spoke to her was beginning to bring doubts to her mind concerning whether or not her memories of her family were actually correct.

She shook away these thoughts at once. She knew her family, if nothing else. She could recall her mother, Amelia, and her soft hands; she remembered her father, Daniel, and his warm eyes. Her sister, Jasmine, was six years her senior, and had gotten into endless trouble for her colourful hair and wild makeup. And she could never forget her little brother Thomas, who was nine years younger than her, and smarter than she had ever been at his age.

Yes, she remembered her family, and she was determined to let their memory ground her. In her mind, she plastered their faces on the walls of the lighthouse that stood as a manifestation of her goals. Find her family. Find her way home.

"I am of age," she told him. "What my aunt thinks is of no concern to me."

There was a lull between them as they each considered the other. Leonardo's face revealed nothing, though considering his obvious distrust of her, she was sure his mind was in complete turmoil. She only hoped that her words had been enough to persuade him to at least give her a _chance_.

At last he spoke. "I do not presume to understand your reasons, but I believe your apology and your willingness to work to be honest and true." He took a deep breath and looked as if he couldn't believe what he was about to say. "I suggest a trial period of two weeks, during which time you will receive pay in the form of food and board. At the end of this period, I will assess whether or not you have proven capable of performing the required work, and you will either be asked to continue, with proper pay on top of board, or you will be asked to leave."

At his words, her knees became weak with paramount relief. Though his features remained stern, she could see the gentle interest in his eye and the kind turn of his lip as he saw how his offer had affected her.

"Is this acceptable?" he asked.

She released a breath as she thought on the two weeks of food and warmth she had now been guaranteed. She had two weeks to formulate a proper course of action; to discover answers to her many questions and to investigate what obstacles stood in her way. In these two weeks she would do her utmost to prove to this Leonardo that she was indeed worthy of being his assistant. And if she were very lucky he might prove worthy of being an ally, or perhaps even, a friend.

"It is," she told him, eyes aflame with determination. "Thank you."

He drew in a long breath and broke eye contact with her at last, and the air around them seemed to lose that nervous apprehension which had pervaded the conversation. They both sighed loudly, and then chuckled at once, she in relief, and he in utter disbelief.

And as they thought upon the shaky uncertainty of their situation, and wondered at this hesitant beginning of an unexpected relationship, a strange light ignited within their hearts as a power beyond either of their knowledge urged them on, setting in motion a series of events which would define the fate of both the man named Leonardo, and this woman who did not belong.

* * *

"È sciocca ragazza, a cosa stai pensando!?"

It had been just over a week since she had begun working as Leonardo's assistant. And things were not progressing as well as she would have hoped.

She could not say that she had not accurately guessed what a life as an artists' assistant entailed, and yet it was a far different matter entirely to actually live it. She quickly lost count of how many hours she had spent sweeping and cleaning and organising the workshop, repairing pens and brushes and carefully nailing parchments to Leonardo's board.

She grew accustomed to trailing after Leonardo, holding paints and oils, and searching for things he had carelessly tossed in drawers or let roll beneath furniture. She had been sent to collect dozens of logs of firewood and make numerous trips to the marketplace to purchase wooden panels and brushes and material and food, as well as many, many bottles of wine.

In all of these simple chores she had proven herself competent. But when it came art itself, she found herself at a loss. She was not a good artist. She wasn't even a decent one. She had no idea of the difference between walnut oil, linseed oil and oil of spike, and hadn't the eye to tell one hue of colour from another. Leonardo had informed her of her inaptitude for grinding pigments, and had now absolutely forbidden her from attempting to mix anything.

Most nights she fell into bed, miserable with her apparent inability to perform even the simplest artistic chores. She tossed and turned, her mind in tumult as she agonised at the likelihood that Leonardo would decide her unfit for the position. She simply had to prove herself.

It was far from easy. Hearing his incensed cry, she winced, glancing down at her fingers where they held the broom she used to sweep snow from the doorstep of the workshop. They were stained with paint. Some hours ago she had thought to move a painting aside, not realising that it had yet to dry. She had hoped that he would not notice the smeared edge, but as she had quickly found, the man was a perfectionist, and was on top of this, incredibly observant.

Finishing her task, she slipped through the door. Though the winter sky was grey and the sun was hidden behind dark snow-laden clouds, the workshop was warm and brightly lit. Leonardo stood within, inspecting the partially smudged painting, grumbling unhappily to himself. Brushing the snow from her person and setting aside the broom, she hesitantly entered the workshop.

Hearing her approach, he turned and frowned at her with silent accusation. She flushed guiltily, avoiding his eyes. Leonardo sighed heavily.

"Signorina, in the future, please check with me before touching any paintings in the workshop. If something looks wet, please don't touch it," he said in a deliberately calm tone. She had known him just long enough now to hear the mounting impatience and exasperation behind the seemingly unruffled surface. His poker face was admirable, but she was learning to see the cracks.

Leonardo, she had found, was a gentle man, overbrimming with curiousity and a passion for knowledge. He was young, and yet the look in his intelligent blue eyes held the spark of wisdom beyond his years. She could not honestly say that she had even begun to scratch the surface of this man.

"I won't," she quietly promised, skittish beneath his disapproving stare. Staring at his boots, she glowered unsteadily as shame and anger clutched her heart. She could do nothing right.

The first days, he had been so willing to give her a chance. He had been kind and accommodating and patient. But day by day, she could see that openness fade as she made mistake after mistake, making a fool of herself again and again.

Now he sighed, turning his back to her dismissively.

With a clenched jaw, her eyes burning as she wondered how she could be such a terrible screw up, she left him and went to find work elsewhere in the house.

No, this was not going well at all.

* * *

She hadn't enough hands for the number of things she was carrying.

Jars of oil to be returned to their box upon the workbench. She believed she was perfectly capable of transporting the precious cargo, as well as several dirty brushes and things, across the workshop floor. It would take only ten steps, at most. But oil is slippery and the jars were heavy. And the sound they made as each fell from her grasp and shattered across the rug and the stone floor was the most dissonant sound she had ever heard.

And she knew at once that it was the final straw.

Leonardo's carefully patient mask slipped, cracked, and then shattered as oil and bright paint splashed across the floor. Brushes, palette knives and spatulas rolled in every direction, carrying the chaos further; thin streaks of yellow and blue now staining stone. But the true horror was the puddle of oil in the centre of the room; a dramatic and enormous splash of dark colour taking up nearly the entire middle rug, seeping deep within the fabric. It was, she knew, a most expensive and terrible mess.

She did not think her stomach could fall any lower, or her heart climb any further up her throat. But as Leonardo's gentle face twisted into an expression of dark rage, her lips sealed shut and she found herself unable to move. The glare he fixed upon her was terrifying. She felt as cold as stone and just as immovable as his icy eyes seared into her, his hands in tight fists, shaking with fury, and his chest heaving as he unleashed his true emotion, and made clear at last, the absolute detestation he felt for her.

His voice was low and dangerously calm as he spoke to her; each word a shard of ice slicing through skin, settling beneath the surface and chilling her very soul.

"From the very beginning, you have shown yourself to be reluctant and entirely without intent to properly concern yourself with any chore you were given. I tried to be understanding, as you have clearly never worked a day in your life. But to my every suggestion or patient direction in light of your apparent inability to perform even the simplest task, I was met with nothing but contempt.

"I hoped that you had been sincere in your desire to make amends for the wrongs you have done against myself and my master, but now it has been made clear. You are arrogant, vain, clumsy and spoiled. Your actions have shed any doubt I may have had of your unsuitability for this work."

His words struck her with a physical force. She was too shocked by the ice in his eyes and the fierce intensity of the words he spoke to even begin to defend herself. She had no idea that this was how he saw her. Looking into his face, she knew there was nothing she could say. He was finished with her.

"Please take your leave, Signorina. You do not belong here."

Leonardo's lips trembled, through his eyes were hard and unyielding. She doubted he had ever been so infuriated in all his life. And it was because of her. The dark emptiness within her chest enveloped her heart, leaving her numb and entirely drained of all and any hope.

"I'm sorry," she said, taking a step back, and then another. "I'm sorry."

With an expression of bleak resignation, she slowly nodded to him, her eyes flickering dully as they fell away from Leonardo's shining blue. Without a breath, she turned on the spot and moved evenly toward the door. A moment later, she was gone.

All that was left as proof of her ever being there was the large stain on the rug, and the fine green cloak slung over the back of an armchair by the fire.

* * *

It was cold.

The vibrant colour of the city had been dulled to a monotonous array of grey and white tones. The trees were bare, their branches gnarled and speckled with ice. Though it was midday, the streets were sparsely populated. The snow at her feet was black as soot, streaming in dirty rivers in some places, and compacted into dangerous patches of black ice in others. The pale stone buildings glistened with the cold. Icicles hung from arches and over snow-speckled windows. Her breath appeared in a thick white mist before her face, the frozen air chilling her skin and burning her lungs. She hugged herself, trudging onward with no place to go, yet knowing that if she stopped, it would truly mean the end.

Her feet and hands were numb only minutes after she fled the warmth of the workshop. The wind tore through the fabric of her dress, biting at her flesh, chasing away the heat. She wanted to shout and swear, but her lips were still sealed shut.

All she could think of was the look in Leonardo's eyes. She had tried her best, done everything she could, yet it wasn't enough.

She had never been despised before.

People hadn't liked her. Hadn't thought her funny. Had wanted her to shut up or go away. But no one had ever said in such certain manner that they wanted absolutely nothing to do with her. No one had hated her.

Yet now, when the difference between being liked and being hated meant the difference between shelter and the cold; between life and death, she found that the person, who would prove to be either her salvation or send her to an icy grave, simply _loathed_ her.

She stopped walking.

_What was she supposed to do?_

For a moment she considered returning to the workshop and begging Leonardo for forgiveness in the slight hope that he would take her back. But the thought was put aside. He would not have her. She had been nothing but a nuisance to him. A careless, selfish screw-up. She would not bother him any longer. He deserved better.

She shivered, rubbing her arms as the cold slithered across her skin, seeping into her bones. As her mind continued to draw blanks in regard to what it was she could possibly do next, her lip began to tremble and it was suddenly all she could do not to burst into tears.

She had tried so hard. So hard.

How was she supposed to find her way home now? When she couldn't even carry a couple of goddamn jars from one place to another? When she couldn't even learn to mix paint? When she couldn't even remember her fucking _name_?

It had been only days ago that she had found out where it was she actually was. She had found the letter which had belonged to the envelope she had discovered in the drawer, the one with the impossible address. The letter was not written in English, but the date in the header had proven her every suspicion, as impossible as they too were, correct.

1476.

She had not been so surprised as she thought she should be. In the time she had been here, she had not found evidence of modern technology of any kind. There was no one dressed as she once had dressed; no one spoke as she had been raised to speak. Not one aspect of this place was like home to her. Not once, not even for a moment, did she feel like she belonged. And once she had come to know this fact, the idea that Leonardo might actually be the same man the letter had addressed him to be wasn't quite so ridiculous.

So, here she was. In the city of Florence, in Italy, in the year 1476. Hated by one of the most famous men of all time, absolutely alone, and with no idea of how to get home. And now, likely freezing to death.

A chill that had nothing to do with the cold trembled through her body. She sensed her before she had even laid eyes upon her, the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing erect as her every muscle stiffened.

She had spared little thought of the strange and unnerving child from the alleyway. She hadn't had the time. But her memory was suddenly alive, every second of that short minute burning in her mind, remembering how she had been called into the alleyway, had been drawn toward the child, how she had followed and obeyed. She remembered how the child had vanished.

Turning on the spot, knowing without seeing that she stood behind her, she realised that she had not accurately remembered just how terrifying she was.

The child stood, more still and solid than the buildings around her. Her hair hung like black cobwebs from her gaunt, pale skull, her grey skin dull and lifeless, but her eyes... Within her eyes, stars were born, galaxies faded, and worlds burned. An iris of flame and a sclera of oblivion, eyes which held the universe... Set deep within the face of a thin and faded child.

She held her breath, watching the child who watched her.

The little girl's hand rose, and she beckoned.

Without a thought, she followed.

* * *

Her movements were sluggish, uncoordinated, as she trailed after the small, dark form of the little girl. No matter how quickly she hurried after her, she could not catch up. She thought to call out, but she could not remember how to move her mouth. Her mind could not match the motion of her body, but she found there was no need for it; her body walked on, following the little girl who was anything but human.

Her mind turned to her surroundings, attempting to presume where the child was leading her, and she found she recognised many of the streets around her. She had not wandered far from Leonardo's workshop. Another corner and it became clear; the Piazza della Signoria. But why?

There was a flash of white ahead, and she blinked as a violent tingle shot through her left palm. In that moment, the little girl simply vanished. She stumbled to a stop and drew in a deep breath, her lungs feeling like her own once more. Her hands trembled fiercely and her heart pounded as she shook fog from her mind. She had not noticed its presence until it began to fade, releasing her as if from a spell. Clenching and unclenching her hands, she shuddered, her mind now sharp as she pushed away the last of the haze

Remembering the flash of white, and now listening to hear the dull roar of a crowd nearby, she steadied herself with a breath, and moved into the Piazza. She had not a single idea of what to expect.

A public hanging had not ever crossed her mind.

Her heart stuttered to a halt as she slowly processed the sight before her. A large crowd had gathered at the foot of a church, where a gallows had been erected, tall and foreboding, and upon this structure, three figures stood with hands bound and nooses tied, currently loose, around their necks.

For a moment she could not understand it. People did not get publicly executed. People did not get hanged. This could not be real.

Her legs walked her closer until she was at the edge of the crowd, and then within it. At last, she was at the very front, close enough to reach out and touch the gallows. She ignored how she was elbowed, shoved and otherwise rudely bustled about by the roaring crowd behind her. Her attention was held in its entirety by the three persons with nooses hanging threateningly around their throats.

The first was an older man with a large nose and a small mouth, with dark hair to his shoulders and a furious look in his eye as he listened to an official reading the crimes of the accused. The older man shouted at the official, spitting furiously. She could not hear his words over the cacophony of the crowd.

Beside him was a young man, perhaps a year or so older than herself. He stood tall and stared ahead, his face unmoving. Shaggy brown hair fell around his face and stubble coated his jaw. His dark eyes were far away.

Her eyes then moved to the last of the accused. And there they stopped. It was a young boy, half the height of the man beside him, with long dark hair, yellow tunic and a terror in his eye as she had never seen. The thick noose covered his small neck almost entirely.

_This is real. _

Thoughts of the cold, of Leonardo, and of her home, fled her mind. This was 1476, and a young boy, no older than her little brother, was about to hang before her eyes.

Her breath caught in her throat as she watched the hangman nod to the official, and move toward a lever at the far end of the structure. Was that all it took? The pull of a lever, a long drop and a short stop, and three lives would be snuffed out. Just like _that_.

She had never felt so overwhelmed by emotion. She trembled with her fear; tears flowed with her sorrow, her body spasmed, bile filling her mouth with her revulsion, and her hands tightened to fists with her fury.

Her ears were full of the noise of the crowd, her mind alive with the frantic, near crazed energy which pervaded the Piazza. Her heart beat with the excitement of the people as they waited eagerly for the death of a child. It sickened her. How could they do this? Why was no one outraged? Why was no one trying to stop this? It was madness!

A hand wrapped around her own. Startled, she turned her wide eyes to found the little girl with the burning eyes, seeing the flesh surrounding them bruised dark purple and red. She watched as fingers as thin as twigs and as cold as stone unfurled her left hand, revealing her palm for both to see. She heard the sound of her breath sucking in as she stared in astonishment at her hand. Below the surface of her palm, something _glowed._

A sharp tingling spasm travelled the length of her arm, before moving down to settle in the palm of her hand, where, as she watched, the golden glow burned to the surface, and there it settled as if it had always been.

A golden circle shimmered in the skin of her palm, lined with irregular patterns which seemed to shift and change as she watched. The edge of the circle appeared to leak its glow like dust; thin, seemingly disconnected tendrils curled up her fingers and spread across her wrist. It was in constant motion, and yet perfectly still.

The crowd fell silent.

She tore her eyes from the strange marking on her hand, only to find that the world had stopped. Her eyes caught every detail at once. She saw the shining reflection of the armour on each guard in the Piazza. She saw the fraying end of the nooses. She saw the hangman's hand on the lever. All was completely still.

"You have the Mark. Rejoice, for you have been saved."

The little girl's voice echoed through the quiet square. She did not need to say a word to express her bewilderment. It showed in her eyes. The child smiled.

"You are Chosen."

She recoiled, tearing her hand away.

Her eyes found the gallows once more, and now she saw the little girl standing beside the boy.

The child continued to smile as the world began again. The crowd bellowed. A man in white threw himself forward, screaming. The hangman pulled the lever. The ground fell from beneath their feet.

And the rope snapped.

* * *

There was a surprised shout from the three as they hit the ground, unable to catch themselves with their hands still bound. Her eyes didn't leave the child's as she just kept smiling.

A rough shove from behind brought her to her senses. The Piazza was in uproar. The three accused had gathered themselves up, and were in the process of struggling with their bindings. The guards descended on the crowd, who panicked, running in every direction and creating precious chaos, which she used to her advantage.

Pulling herself from the crowd, she ducked beneath the gallows, and hurried to the older man, presenting herself to him with empty hands, showing that she was no threat. He did not look at her hands, but at her face. Three sets of eyes stared at her with shock.

"_Marietta?"_

The feeling in her chest which burst at the sound of the young man's voice was not one that she could describe, nor did she have time to ponder on it. The instant she was recognised, she moved urgently forward and used her nails to pull apart the knot which held the rope to the older man's wrists. After several long moments, the rope fell away and the man moved at once to free the younger man of his bonds as she went to help the young boy.

She tried to ignore the screaming of the crowd, the clashing of metal upon metal and the pounding of her heart in her ears. Instead, she focussed on the breath of the boy before her, short and as irregular as her own. Her fingers struggled clumsily with the tight knot, so she leaned down with an impatient growl and pulled at it with her teeth, feeling it give just enough to tug it loose.

Throwing it aside, she then reached up and removed the remains of the noose from around his neck. The rope fell apart in her hands, first holding together as thin strands and then collapsing to dust. She brushed herself off, looking at the boy to see if there were any more she could do, and finding nothing but wet eyes and a face filled with trauma and fear, she turned to the men.

Strong arms wrapped suddenly around her, and her face was pressed into a shoulder as a large body that stank of sweat and fear was held tightly against her, enveloping her completely in his warmth. Her eyes grew impossibly wide and she stiffened as a hot breath breezed over her neck and a low voice whispered in her ear in a voice full of wonder,

"_You're alive."_

She drew in a deep, shaky breath and held it as he continued to hold her. The world was in anarchy around them as they stood beneath the gallows, snow and dust falling through the swinging trapdoor as the air rang with screams. Her heart skipped in her chest as she was hugged by him, each moment in his desperate embrace causing her to become increasingly discomforted. She felt the heat of his hands as they clutched her, and the soft brush of his hair on her cheek, and the way he held her so close.

And she had no idea who he was.

There was a clang of metal, and a shout and she was suddenly thrust into the cold winter air, and pushed behind the young man with the shaggy hair. She stumbled into a small form and felt small hands clutch her skirt. Breathless and shaken, she met the dark eyes of the young boy who stared at her with confusion, and she wrapped an arm around him at once. She felt him stiffen, as if her embracing him had been the last thing he expected, but at last, his hands fisted into her skirt and he clung to her side, his slight body trembling beneath her hands.

"Federico, get Marietta and Petruccio out of here!"

Behind the two men, she saw that the crowds had all but dispersed, and now, the guard began to close in on them. They were prisoners, after all. And now escapees. And she had put herself in the midst of it all.

Every inch of courage fled her as the first of the guards reached them. Holding Petruccio to her side, she stumbled back as a man adorned in dark clothing and golden armour, a helm shielding his face ducked beneath the gallows, sword drawn. Federico stood before her, his stance ready. He intended to defend her.

The guard stepped toward them, and to her astonishment, it was the older man that intercepted him, grabbing his sword arm and twisting. In a single fluid motion, he disarmed the guard, shoving him back and adjusting the sword in his own grip.

And then he lunged forward and ran the guard through.

Her mind was blank with horror as she watched the mortally wounded man stumble, and then crumple to the ground, gasping for a moment, the white of his eyes gleaming in the shadow of his helm, before he shuddered, and fell completely still.

She had never seen someone die before. She had never seen someone kill.

He was only the first.

The older man stepped away from the body and glanced at them. Federico did not hesitate to move to the guard's body and take the small dagger from his belt. Her fingers tightened around Petruccio's shoulders, her lips trembling as Federico then turned and beckoned her to him. Slowly, she pulled herself closer, giving the body at their feet a wide berth. Federico's arm wound around her waist, holding her close to his side.

"You must leave the city," the older man spoke quickly, his voice low. "Go to Monteriggioni, to your uncle. He will help you."

"And what about you?" Federico demanded.

"I will draw the guard and catch you up when I can." His voice was calm, seemingly assured, but a tremor ran through the younger man and he opened his mouth to protest. The older man stopped him with a hand on his shoulder, staring firmly into his eyes. "Keep our family safe, my son. And know that I could not be more proud of you."

"Father..."

"Now go," the man nodded, shoving lightly at his son's shoulder. "Go!"

And with a final nod, his eyes glistening with his goodbye, the older man stepped out from beneath the gallows and threw himself at the approaching guards, of which there were far too many. Federico hesitated a moment, looking as if he wanted nothing more than to rush after his father. He then drew in a quick breath and stepped back, turning to gaze down at her and his brother with solemn brown eyes.

"Let's go."

His hand slipped from her waist and wrapped around hers, as he brought them to the edge of the structure. Her heart fluttered as they looked upon the carnage which filled the square, and the two men who created it. Her eyes fixed upon a figure in white, with a dark cape on his shoulder, a red sash at his waist, and a hood, who fought within a circle of guards, his back to the older man, fighting alongside him. Federico's hand tightened around her own and she was ready as he tugged them from the shadow of the gallows, and in a moment she was being dragged along in a sprint, one hand being pulled while the other held tightly to the wrist of the boy who struggled behind them.

They made for the road at the far end of the square from the fighting. She was already panting from the exertion, and her arm quickly tired from the effort of keeping Petruccio upright and moving. They reached the empty street and there halted, breathing heavily.

Federico released her, squeezing her shoulder before he pressed himself to the wall, peering desperately into the Piazza. Her hands shook with adrenaline as she found herself incapable of loosening her grip on Petruccio, who collapsed against her, gasping as he too watched for his father.

So intent they were in their watching of him that they failed to notice that additional guards had arrived and now ran to join to fray. Their father and the figure in white were now vastly outnumbered. They had not a chance in the world of getting out of this alive.

Throat tight with dread, she reached out and tugged gently on the material on Federico's arm. They needed to go. The moment the men fell, the guards would be after them, and she was far from confident in her ability to outrun even the slowest of them, even without Petruccio to look after.

Federico either did not notice her tugs, or ignored them, but her efforts to gain his attention ended as a shout was heard over the cries of the guard and the clang of clashing metal. Still holding onto Federico's shirt, she watched as his father shoved roughly not at their enemy, but at the man in white, who stumbled back and hesitated uncertainly, his face hidden beneath the shadow of his raised hood. Bodies were piled at their feet, the snow around them shockingly red with spilled blood.

"_Get out of here!" _

Their father slashed and kicked and parried as he roared at the man, guard after guard falling at his feet, only to be replaced by more as they arrived, numbered now in the dozens. His face was slick with sweat, his thin nose bloodied, his lank hair sticking to his face as he fought with such dexterity and fluidity as she had never seen.

"Now!"

The man in white hesitated a moment longer, before he turned and dashed toward them. He was noticed, and a large number of guards took up the chase, running after him. Her heart faltered and she quite forgot how to breathe as she watched them head in their direction.

They stiffened, taking several steps back but wavering.

"Federico!" the man in white shouted, waving a desperate hand, a band of guards hot on his tail. "Go! _Go!_"

They hesitated still, tempting fate, until their father's voice called above the rest, "Run, my sons! Run!"

In a moment, Federico turned and threw Petruccio over his shoulder, and then he grabbed a hold of her hand, and they ran.

She could hear the guards shouting behind them; could hear their footsteps on the cobblestone and the clanging of their swords. She panted heavily but matched the others' speed, her legs pumping her forward and her feet pounding upon the snowy street. She ran faster than ever before, through the crowds and the markets and across a bridge over the River Arno. The sound of shaking metal fell away as Federico turned corner after sharp corner, slowly but surely losing the guards in the crowded streets of Firenze.

* * *

Federico glanced back, searching in vain for the father they had left far behind. And in that moment, Petruccio slipped from his shoulder, and Federico's foot fell upon an icy patch on the stone. He fell, pulling her with him, and the man in white who ran behind them was too slow to avoid becoming tangled in their sprawled limbs.

In a pile of hot and heaving bodies, she let out a weak groan of pain, wincing as she felt grazes on her hands and cheek. As a heavy weight lifted from her person, she scrambled to her feet, feeling her wrist throb tenderly. The man in white brushed himself off and watched in the direction they had come as Federico helped Petruccio to his feet and checked the quietly sobbing boy for injury.

"Did we lose them?" she asked breathlessly, cradling her sore wrist.

Neither man responded.

She had opened her mouth to repeat the question, but instead released a shout of warning as a trio of guardsmen appeared from an adjacent street. Federico pulled the dagger he had taken from the fallen guard from his belt, holding it at the ready, while the man in white drew his sword. The three guards circled the two weary men, their armour glinting.

Hardly daring to breathe, she reached out and drew the shaking Petruccio to her, taking them several steps further from the imminent fight. She thought to run, but where would she go? Her legs protested at even her standing. So she stood and watched, shivering as her insides burned and her sweaty skin grew chilled. Falling snow evaporated before it could touch her.

The guard struck first. People in the street shouted in shock and backed away, or ran for their lives.

She saw Federico's fist bury itself into a guard's gut, saw the hilt of the man in white's sword strike a guard's cheek, and she saw a dagger plunge into a man's back and stick there. The guard fell, and did not get up. Now there were two.

Petruccio whimpered beside her and she turned and pulled him close, pressing his face into her stomach. "Don't look," she whispered, wishing that she could do the same.

Blood seeped from Federico's nose, and dribbled down the mysterious man's chin. Federico hadn't time to retrieve his blade from the back of his fallen enemy as the third of the guards slashed at him. Federico dodged out of the way, and stepped quickly toward the man, striking him hard in the side. The guard gasped, stumbling away and clutching his ribs.

Righting himself, Federico stood tall, watching and waiting as his ally fought clumsily nearby, his arm strong but his talent in swordplay clearly lacking. He seemed to have confidence in the man's skill, however, for he did not even glance to him.

The guard composed himself and ran at Federico in a wild fury, his sword held high. In a smooth movement, Federico slipped beneath his raised arm, clutched the material at his stomach, and drove his heel into the back of the man's knee.

The guardsman crumpled with a shout, and Federico was on him before he had hit the ground. A hard twist of his wrist and the sword was flung from his grasp. Placing his weight fully on the man's middle, Federico fisted his hands into the man's tunic and pulled him up, only to drive his fist into the man's unprotected face, again and again, until blood spurted from his nose and upper lip, only then was he released, his head thudding sickeningly upon the hard ground. She could not say whether he was dead or merely unconscious.

Federico stood to attention as the man in white gave a grunt, and they watched him stagger back, a thin slash of red appearing on his side, the colour vibrant and shocking as it soaked into the pristine white of his tunic.

"Ezio!" Federico stepped forward.

The man in white raised a hand, stopping him. "I'm fine," he ground out.

But as he lunged forward to strike at his opponent and his sword was easily parried yet again, it was clear that he was not fine. He seemed at least competent in his defence, though the same could not be said of his attacks. She knew nothing of sword-fighting, but she was certain it was not meant to look so awkward and strained.

The guard slipped through his defence and another line of red appeared on his person, now on his arm. He hissed, nearly dropping his sword. This time, Federico stepped forward and did not stop, unarmed though he was. He was perfectly calm in his every movement, while the other man, Ezio, appeared wildly uncertain. It was plain to see which of the men was trained in conflict, and which was not.

Federico approached the duel, apparently unnoticed by the guard, and without hesitation, he struck, pulling his hand into a tight fist, and then sending it flying into the side of the man's head. The guard staggered, and Ezio pounced, knocking the man's blade aside, and burying his sword to the hilt within his chest.

Her eyes snapped shut and her body convulsed with her disgust. Petruccio's arms were tight around her waist and she numbly stroked her fingers through his hair. There was the thick sound of a body hitting the ground, and then silence.

The low murmur of the darkly curious crowd steadily grew as the battle ended, and children peered around their mother's to see the dead bodies in the street. Her shaky, uneven breaths were loud in her ears, and she couldn't tell where the trembling of her body ended and Petruccio's began.

The sword trembled slightly in Ezio's grasp as he turned to Federico, nodding his reassurance. Federico then faced her, and at the sight of her pale face and wide eyes, he moved to hurry to her, his stern facade falling as his face was overcome with pain and regret.

There was movement from the guard on the ground near him. A gloved hand tightened around a dagger at his belt and pulled it free. A face, beaten beyond recognition and mangled beyond repair twisted into what would have been an ugly sneer. Federico did not see the flash of the blade, and she was too slow in crying out a warning as the guard's arm struck like a snake, grasping the passing Federico's boot in one hand, and with the other, plunging the dagger deep into his leg. Metal cut through meat like butter. With a feral growl of victory, the bloody faced guard twisted and then pulled; the blade tore out of the back of Federico's leg.

The scream that was torn from Federico's throat was inhuman, and completely drowned out her own. Federico's leg crumpled beneath him and he grasped at it, trying to hold in the blood. His hands were slick and his brown pants became dark as hot blood spurted from his butchered appendage, painting both him and the street a shocking and terrifying red.

She had never seen anything so utterly horrific in her life, nor could she have ever imagined just how much blood the human body could lose in such a short amount of time.

The guard was alive no longer than a moment after his blade left Federico's leg, as Ezio was upon him with an enraged roar, near severing the man's head from his shoulders with a sword to the neck. Ezio then rushed to his groaning companion, freezing momentarily at the ghastly sight of the wound. A whimper from Federico urged him into motion once more.

Tearing the red sash from his waist, he ignored Federico's shout of agony and subsequent string of curses as he wrapped the material tightly around his gushing leg. Knotting it firmly and ignoring that it had already soaked through, he moved to his side, threw Federico's arm over his shoulders and held tightly to his waist, and then pulled the man to his feet.

Federico gave out another inhuman shriek, his legs giving out beneath him and his head becoming limp on his shoulders as he slipped in and out of consciousness. Ezio grunted, staggering beneath the weight, adjusting his stance in an attempt to keep him upright, but she knew that he could not succeed at bringing his companion anywhere by his effort alone.

She removed Petruccio's arms from around her waist, pushing him gently aside as she rushed to the men, ducking without hesitation beneath Federico's limp arm, throwing it around her neck and settling herself into his side. She wrapped an arm around his waist and felt Ezio's hot arm aside hers. Taking a deep breath, ignoring the slick red on Federico's hand where it hung over her shoulder, and how wet warmth soaked into her side. She took the man's weight. Wincing, she adjusted her hold on him until she was certain she would not drop him, then looking over the back of his head where it hung low on his shoulders, and met the startling golden eyes of Ezio.

"He needs a hospital," she panted, wrapping her fingers tightly around Federico's slippery wrist. The feel of sticky, congealing blood on her hands made her stomach lurch so she focussed on keeping her footing as they slowly began to move.

"No," Federico groaned, sucking in deep lungfuls of air. "Take me to La Rosa Colta."

Ezio snarled, unamused, "This is not the time for your jokes."

"The madam there... she will help," the injured man gasped, suppressing a cry as his one good leg gave out beneath him. A cold sheen of sweat coated his deathly pale face, the rings around his eyes darkened, and the tension in his body lessened with every step. She gave a grunt as she tried to adjust to the steadily increasing weight of him. Sweat trickled down her back and the muscles in her arms and leg shook. She ignored the ache of her shoulders as she put one foot in front of the other, helping drag Federico's near limp body through the frozen streets of Firenze.

They were careful to avoid patrols, keeping to the more populated streets, keeping their heads down and moving as efficiently as possible, Ezio guiding them in silence. The sky had darkened, and the winds had picked up. Snow struck her face, soaking into her hair and slipping past her collar to trickle down her neck as she stared at the ground, avoiding uneven cobblestones and patches of ice. She focused on her breathing, on keeping her back as straight as possible, and on keeping one foot in front of the other.

"Ezio..." she heard Federico begin, his voice weak.

"I know," the man in white replied shortly.

A moment passed as they made their way through a marketplace and turned down a quieter street.

"Father..."

"I know."

Federico shuddered and fell silent, too weak to even raise his head.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Petruccio keeping close to her side, his face streaked with dirt, snot and tears, staring ahead with glassy eyes as he kept a tight hold on her skirt. She hadn't the energy to comfort him, and even if she did, what would she say? Her jaw clenched as she tightened her grip on the man beside her.

"This is it," Ezio announced at last, fatigue clear in his tone.

The building they approached was designed for seduction. The red awnings and silken drapes fluttered sensually in the winter air, standing out against the snowy rooftops, as perfume and incense seemed to ooze from its very foundation. Rosebushes lined either side of the rich mahogany door, and candlelight flickered invitingly through the windows.

Shoving rudely through a thin crowd of men, Ezio did not knock before he entered. Petruccio hurried through after them, closing the door before returning to his place at her side. Pausing a moment, they watched as every person in the establishment stopped and gazed upon them in astonishment. It took only a sweep of the room for her to recognise that they stood in a brothel.

Sconces glowed dimly on the walls and heavy vermillion drapes hung from above. Plush rugs hugged the floors, and women and their clients sat on the rich velvet sofas around the room. A winder staircase stood on the back wall, leading to the upper levels where she supposed the private rooms must be. Enormous vases filled with red and white flowers decorated the corners and the air was heavy with incense and the unmistakeable smell of humanity in its basest form.

"Help me," Ezio barked, and at once, several women sprang from where they lounged on sofas or were sprawled across the laps of men, and hurried over to them.

One of the ladies, her lipstick smeared, her blonde hair tousled around her face and her dress hanging loosely from one shoulder stepped forward and took charge. "Come, we'll put him in the back room. Elora," she looked to a dark-skinned beauty who stood to immediate attention, "find Paola and tell her what has happened. Then find Mary and have her bring her medicine box. The rest of you, please get back to work."

"Yes, Olive."

The blonde woman, Olive, beckoned them to follow, and they trailed behind her as she slipped through heavy drapes lined with gold and led them through a darkened hallway, lined with doors. At the very end of the hall was a door, which she opened to them, and through it they found themselves in the most decadent room she had ever seen.

Thin, light material formed a canopy overhead, and though plush chairs and sofas, decorated with fine pillows lined the decorated walls, the room was clearly designed with the bed as its centrepiece. The enormous dark wooden structure sat invitingly against the back wall, pristine white sheets and an army of the largest pillows she had ever seen hugging the thick, soft mattress. There were no blankets but she supposed they weren't required. This was not a hotel, after all.

Olive moved throughout the dark room, lighting candles, as they struggled to the bed and placed Federico carefully upon it, face down. She stepped back and watched Ezio hover over Federico, his shoulders tense and his white tunic smeared with patches the colour of rust. Slowly, she looked down at herself, her face twisting with revulsion as she found similar stains on her dress and colouring her left hand. Below the layer of dried blood, she could see the strange circle glowing steadily upon her skin.

She heard a sob, and looked about to find Petruccio standing in the middle of the room, staring at his brother lying still and grey on the bed. His arms curled to his chest and he appeared to crumple in on himself as he burst into tears. In two strides, she had reached him and without a thought she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and led him to a sofa by the door, where she sat him down, held him tight as he cried.

The door opened and two women swept in with a flourish of fine skirts and furrowed brows.

"Ezio," the elder of the women spoke as they approached the bed. Dark hair was gathered beneath a silken headdress, fixed around her head by a string of pearls. The woman stood tall in her dress of dark pink, lace brushing the pale skin of her breast, a large area of her chest revealed by the low square of her neckline, the creamy space filled only by the curve of her breast and a pearl necklace. Light pink rouge kissed her cheeks and eyelids, while her lips were painted a deep red.

"Paola," he greeted warily, his eyes on the slight, timid red headed girl at her side.

"This is Mary, a midwife."

"A midwife?" She didn't look a day over sixteen.

"She is well trained. And is Federico's best chance."

A moment passed, and then he nodded stiffly, moving aside to let the girl pass. Her eyes fixed to the ground, she hurried to Federico's side, a large wooden box held tightly to her chest. They watched as she placed it on the bedside table, unclasped the latch and lifted the lid, revealing row after row of ominous tools and corked vials of medicine, or what was considered medicine in this time.

"Let's have a looksee then," Mary mumbled to herself, quickly finding the injury as blood steadily spread from his leg and stained the white sheets.

Ezio glanced questioningly at Paola, who explained quietly, "She is from England, arrived only four months ago. She can speak very little Italian but understands far more than some might think."

Hearing this, she blinked in surprise, staring at Mary, who had removed Federico's boot and who now busied herself cutting away the leg of his pants. She had clearly heard the girl's words and understood each one. She supposed that she was comforted by the fact that she had discovered she could still understand her native tongue. The question of how it was she could speak Italian, a language she certainly never learnt, so fluently was not one she liked to ponder on. It was yet another mystery she had no answer to.

She gently shushed Petruccio as he shook in her arms, sniffling and choking on his tears. Rubbing circles on his back, she rested her cheek on the top of his head and closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath, and then slowly letting it out.

She listened to Mary work, the girl whistling lowly as she slowly took away the makeshift bandage, wincing as it adhered to the wound, and then inspected the damage.

"Tha'... is a lot of blood," she breathed with a thick London accent, moving quickly to her medicine box, muttering to herself as she rifled through its compartments.

Her cheek still resting on Petruccio's dark head, she opened her eyes to watch Mary return to Federico's side with rags; a bowl of water, a bottle filled with what looked like wine, bandages and a terrifying looking needle. Placing these on the bed beside him, she paused and then went and took out a small vial of a white liquid, which she poured into him mouth, holding closed his lips and nose and rubbing his throat until he swallowed it.

"You might need tha'," she muttered to his unconscious form, and then louder addressed her audience. "All I can do is stitch 'im up. He's lost a lot of blood. We'll have to 'ope tha' it wasn't too much." From the tone of her voice, and her concerned glance to the grey tint of his skin, she didn't seem very hopeful of this.

Again, Ezio looked to Paola, who now shook her head, also clearly not having understood the girl. They could only watch and hope that whatever she was doing to Federico's leg would be enough to save him.

Wetting the rag, she began to wash around the wound, washing away the blood, and then soaking the rag with wine, she cleaned the wound. Next, the red-headed girl threaded the needle, pinched the skin together, and with an audible gulp, began to sew.

Revolted at the sight of the girl pushing and pulling a needle through the skin of a man's leg, she once again closed her eyes, and now wished with all her might that she were anywhere else. She thought then of leaving; simply pushing Petruccio aside, standing and walking out of the door, never to return. She would go to Leonardo's workshop and fall upon her knees and beg him to take her back. She would learn the name of every hue and shade of every colour in existence. She would become the very best assistant he could ask for. She would cook and clean and scrub his shoes and do everything he asked without a moment's hesitation. Anything he asked of her would be simpler than this.

But he would not have her. Though she was convinced that she was innocent of all he had accused her of, he was passionate enough in his belief that she was certain there was nothing she could do to change his opinion of her.

However, the very last thing she desired was to be caught up in the tragedy that was this family's life. They were escaped prisoners, runaways, and by tomorrow the entire city would no doubt be crawling with guards, intent on recapturing them. How would she find her way home from a prison cell, or at the end of a rope?

She released a sigh that came from deep within her chest. In her arms, Petruccio began to calm. Mary tied off the stitches and cut the loose thread, dabbing the long, bloody wound with more wine before taking the bandages, which were in actuality nothing more than longer rags, and wrapped his leg with them.

"These'll need to be changed four times a day, or whenever they've been bled-through. The longer he 'as 'em soiled, the more likely he is to get infected." Then, in a lower voice, she mumbled to herself as she gathered her tools and turned to her medicine box, "Though it's not likely he'll live long enough to_ get_ infected."

Her head shot up to look at Mary with wide eyes, filled with alarm. "Is he not going to make it?"

Three sets of eyes fell upon her, but she stared urgently at the girl, who had flushed with horror at the realisation that someone had understood her. For a moment Mary stammered frantically, "I'm sorry, miss. I didn't know—"

She cut the girl off, "Do you think he's going to die?"

Mary stared at her long and hard, the seconds ticking by as they simply looked at each other. Then the red-head sighed. "I can't say for certain, miss. He's lost a lot of blood. More than anyone should. If he does wake up from this... It'll be a miracle."

At the midwife's words, she squeezed Petruccio gently, "Isn't there anymore you can do?"

Mary shook her head, her face clouded with regret. "I've cleaned the wound and stitched it up tight. The idea is to keep whatever blood he's got left inside 'im." She shrugged helplessly. "I've done all I can, miss. We'll just have to wait and see if it's enough."

She held the girl's gaze a while longer before she released a heavy breath and nodded her thanks. Mary gave a sad smile and returned to cleaning and putting away her tools.

Rubbing Petruccio's back, she leaned heavily against the soft pillows on the sofa, her body suddenly overcome with weakness. Her head swam with fatigue, and she breathed deeply, fighting to keep her eyes open.

"What did she say?" A voice, tinged with the spoiled whine of a privileged and frustrated youth, demanded.

She blinked to see Ezio, his hood down to reveal the face of a young man with a strong jaw, high cheekbones, large nose and heavy brow, looming over her. Dark brown bangs fell on either side of his face, while the length of his hair was tied with a red ribbon. Well defined lips were marred by a long scab, the wound near fresh and yet to properly heal and subsequently scar. But the feature which held her attention was the golden hue of his eyes.

Immediately, comparison was drawn to the burning eyes of another, but as she looked longer into the eyes of the man before her, she saw that these were far from the colour of scorching flames and the cold rage of eternity. Ezio's eyes were filled with golden sunlight and the warm kiss of sunbeams on a summer day. Never had she seen anything like them. But now they narrowed as they looked down upon her.

"And since when did you speak English?"

She gaped, not having expected to be questioned nor looked at with such distrust, and yes, dislike. It appeared that Marietta was not a fan of making friends, and now she suffered the consequence of it. Petruccio sat up and stared up at Ezio, wiping at his wet face.

"She said you must keep him comfortable, change his bandages when he needs it," she told him, her quiet voice shaking only a little, finding it difficult to meet his gaze. "...And pray that he wakes up."

Those golden eyes darkened, like the sun disappearing behind a cloud, and he turned from her to look sullenly upon his motionless brother. They did not move as Mary closed her box, leaving behind a large pile of towels and bandages, lowering her eyes and slipping quietly from the room.

A minute passed in silence, and then another. Ezio's hands tightened to fists as he turned his back to the bed. "I trust you will keep him safe, Paola."

"Where are you going?" she asked as he made for the door.

"I must find my father. He is still out there. He may be injured. He may need my help."

Sitting beside Petruccio, she looked between Paola and Ezio in silence. The young man's jaw was tight and his eyes burned as he stared at the older woman, daring her to say what they all very well knew.

They had seen the number of guards their father had fought, and no matter the man's skill, he could not possibly have defeated them all. But Ezio clearly still held hope that against every odd, his father just might have survived. And she would not be the one to take it from him.

Paola nodded obligingly. "Your family is safe here, Ezio."

This was apparently all he needed to hear. Without another word, he rushed to the door and then he was gone.

* * *

She knew the bath to be hot. She had watched a woman pour it from a cauldron over the fire directly into the tub. She could see the steam rising from the water, and feel beads of sweat forming on her brow. And yet, she shivered.

The water was red.

The sight of it nearly had her throwing herself from the bath and fleeing out the door, but as the thought occurred to her, she also knew that she could not move even if she tried. She was alone, sitting in a bath by a roaring fire in one of the finest rooms of one of the most popular brothels in Florence, listening to the distant laughter of prostitutes at work as she washed blood from her body, where it had soaked through her clothes and clung to her skin, painting her a dark, garish red.

Her eyes burned but she could not cry. Her stomach turned but she could not be sick. She simply sat, trembling and staring into the misty red waters of her bath, feeling chilled and empty and impossibly numb. How had this happened? What had she done that had led her to this moment? What had she done to deserve this? The events of the day rushed through her consciousness, the colours red and white standing out amongst the terror and the rage and the dead.

Feeling her chest tighten, she searched her mind, trying desperately to find something to cling to. Her goals; her objective to find her family and her way home, once so grounding, now slipped through her fingers as she came at last to the realisation that they were utterly impossible to achieve. She was trapped here. There was no way to get home, no one coming to save her. And no matter how she wished it were not so, it would never be. This was what had become of her life.

And with that thought, she turned and picked up the cloth they had left for her, wet it in the water, and then she scrubbed. She scrubbed until her skin turned pink and prickled with pain, and until she could take no more. She scrubbed away the men she had seen die, the sight of hot blood mixed with snow and the sound of clashing swords. She scrubbed until the tears fell from her eyes and bile coated her tongue. She scrubbed away her every hope of reaching home, she scrubbed away her dreams of seeing her family again. She scrubbed until the water darkened with her blood. And it was then at the very moment she pushed aside every memory of her past and every hope of ever finding it again, she began to remember it.

Below the swirling red waters, beneath skin rubbed raw and stained with blood, the Mark glowed.

* * *

Her knuckles rapped smartly upon the solid brown door.

Shoddy boots kicked at the snow on the doorstep, her brow furrowing to see that it had not been swept. It had been three days since she had been sent away, and it appeared that the snow had been left to gather. She sighed, her breath misting in the cold as she rubbed her arms, the material of the simple dress she had been given itching her still tender skin.

She knocked again and then brought her chilled hands, wrapped in fingerless gloves though they were, to her mouth and breathed heavily on them, rubbing them quickly and then tucking them beneath her crossed arms.

Paola had been kind, and especially understanding when she found the bloodied dress and slippers burning steadily in the fire when she had come to check on her in the bath. She had provided what she could, but firewood and servants were expensive, as was food in the wintertime, and she had many mouths to feed as well as numerous ravenous clients to satisfy.

So now here she stood on the doorstep of Leonardo's workshop, intent on having him return to her the cloak and jewels she had left behind, so that she might have some chance of survival in her new state of being unemployed and penniless.

Growling impatiently now, unhappy to have to wait out in the bitter chill of the gloomy morning, she tightened her fist and pounded solidly on the wood.

For a long moment, there was a continued silence, and she raised her fist to pound once more when it suddenly swung inward, and there stood Leonardo da Vinci himself.

Enormous blue eyes widened at the sight of her. Her attempts to lessen her scowl failed, and she was in no mood for pleasantries, nor did she expect there to be any. She clearly remembered his cruel and unfair words to her only days before, and she still stung from them. She had only tried her best and he had misunderstood her and had judged her and turned her away. And now look where she had found herself. Living in a brothel.

She scoffed as he continued to stare, wishing for him to either invite her in out of the cold – she could no longer feel her thighs – or else demand to know what she was doing there. But as the silence dragged on and the unintelligent gawking continued, she gave a huff.

"I'm here to collect my things."

The sound of her voice appeared to pull him from his stupor, and he stammered. Stepping aside, he surprised her by holding the door open and gesturing for her to come inside. Glancing uncomfortably at him, she stepped within and was at once enveloped in the familiar aroma and warmth of the workshop.

Nothing had changed. In fact, most everything seemed to be exactly how she left it. Her eyes immediately fell to the central rugs, where she saw the terrible dark stain over the spot she had dropped the jars of oil. She idly wondered whether it had dried. Looking about, she saw that Leonardo had yet to learn how to clean after himself. Balls of parchment sat forgotten on the ground, books stood stacked in corners and empty plates and cups perched on the workbench.

And on the smallest armchair by the fire, her velvet green cloak hung as if waiting for her to return for it.

"If I may say so," Leonardo spoke uncertainly from behind her, "it is good to see you alive, Signorina. I... I heard tell of the fall of the Auditores, and I hoped that you would not be dragged into such a tragic affair. Is it true?" he asked her solemnly. "Is Signor Auditore...?"

"Dead. His son, Ezio, found his body and buried him in a burning boat on the Arno."

"I see. I am sorry to hear it. He was a good man."

Staring sullenly at the ground, her form grew tense. "He saved my life. And he saved his sons'. He died a hero." She shook her head, hopelessly frustrated with the injustice of it all.

"His sons are safe? His daughter, and Madonna Auditore as well?"

"Yes." She glanced sharply at him, and suddenly realising she had no reason to trust him, grew guarded with her words. "All are well. Federico was injured, but lives still."

Seeing her eyes narrow warily, Leonardo nodded and ended his line of questioning. "I am relieved. It is good to know that they are safe."

Silence fell between then and she found herself standing awkwardly in the middle of the workshop for a moment too long. Clearing her throat, she made for the staircase.

"I'll just get my things, then."

He did not protest, so she hurried up the stairs and stepped within the confines of what had briefly been her room. All was how it was left, down to the unmade bed and folded pillow. Unwilling to linger too long, she strode to the drawers and peered in, quickly finding the necklace she had put there a fortnight prior and had not looked at since.

Pulling a cloth from her skirt, she wrapped the jewels tightly and tucked it safely in her pocket. Closing the door firmly behind her, she trudged back down the stairs, finding Leonardo fretting by the fire, rubbing his neck and pacing to and fro. He came to attention as he heard her descend to the workshop floor, his blue eyes glimmering in the firelight.

"Signorina," he blurted out hurriedly, seemingly before he could stop himself or before she could speak. "I must apologise for the things that I have said to you. They were most unkind and I am incredibly ashamed to have said them."

She blinked, an apology being the last thing she had expected from the man. Fixing him with a steady stare, her eyebrows rose.

"Why?" she exclaimed in surprise, searching his face. His eyes which had only days ago been as hard as ice and burning with contempt, now gazed at her openly, brimming with shame and regret. "You made clear your honest opinion of me. Why would you be sorry?"

He filled his lungs, steadying himself. "Several days ago, Ezio Auditore came to me for help. And though he would not talk much of his family, he did speak of you. He told me how you leapt into action to save his father and brothers. How you freed them of their binds just in time for Giovanni to fight off the oncoming guard. How you helped drag their injured brother to safety, and comforted Petruccio when no one else could. None of these things I ever dreamed you were even capable of."

She shifted uncomfortably at this romanticised description of events and at the analytical look in his eye as he stared at her, wondering what it was he was getting at.

"But you are not the woman I believed you to be." He gave a heavy sigh, rubbing the back of his neck and looking terribly ashamed. "You came to me for atonement and I turned you away. I was _wrong_. For this, I am sorry." With that, he lowered his head, giving a small but sorrowful bow.

Staring at the top of his head, she felt tongue tied as she tried to remember exactly what a person was supposed to say in this situation, but her mind was blank. He straightened, and though he didn't smile at her, his face was calm as he regarded her with thoughtful consideration.

"I hope that you will accept my apology, Signorina." At her silence his brow furrowed slightly, but he continued. "I also hope that you will consider my offer to stay on as my assistant. For aside from the few clumsy mishaps, and a regrettable ignorance of the arts, you are a fine worker and are quick to learn. And as you can see," he chuckled shortly, gesturing to the mess around the workshop, "your presence has been missed."

Slowly, her head began to shake, and she fell back a step as she looked upon him with narrowed eyes, trying to understand him. "You hate me," she stated, daring him to say otherwise.

His smile faded, and after a moment of careful thought, he said at last, "I hated the woman who humiliated me in front of all the nobility of Firenze, the woman who laughed as I was beaten by the guard, who sneered when I tripped before her and who stepped upon the things I had dropped as if they were no more than dirt beneath her feet. I hated the woman I believed you to be when I sent you away."

A wince shadowed across her face at the things of which she was accused, and she stopped herself from adamantly insisting that she would never perform such terrible acts. She had not been the one to do them, after all.

Such dark deeds you once did, Marietta Sanfilippo, she thought solemnly. Who were you and where have you come to be?

"And now?" she asked him.

"Now..." he shrugged, his form bathed in the firelight, the red of his cape glowing in the dim room. "I see you stand before me, and I have no idea of who you are."

Letting out a soft snort, she nodded thoughtfully as her eyes filled with dark mirth. I guess that makes two of us, thought she.

He looked at her curiously, "Will you stay?"

It was more than she had dreamed. She could never have guessed that _he_ would be the one asking for her return. She had considered every alternate approach she could take in attempt to convince him to take her back; begging, crying, demanding, and pushing until he eventually gave in... A change of heart brought about by the good word of a man she had met only once, and who she had not seen or heard of since, she could never have imagined.

She would have to thank Ezio Auditore, should she ever see him again.

"If you'll have me, I will."

A smile flittered across his face, making his eyes shine and his face glow, but it had gone before she had a chance to stare. Instead he nodded contentedly. "Good. Good! Well, your room is just as you left it, and you know where everything is. I have not been very productive today, I'm afraid, though I still have much to do. There is a list of things I need from the market and I think that rat has returned to the kitchen so you should probably start there," he began to ramble, quickly handing her the list in question, and then stepping away and rubbing his neck.

"I was just on my way to the market, so I'll get what you need from there," she told him, glancing over his familiar scrawl. "There are a few things I need to do before I come back, though."

"Of course. I understand. There is no rush – well, that is to say, I would like them done as soon as possible – but they need not be done at this very moment."

"I'll… be back tonight. If that's okay?"

His lungs drew a deep breath, calming his rampant thoughts and loose tongue, "Yes, Signorina."

A smile played at the corner of her lips, "Alright. I'll see you later, then." Climbing the steps to the door, she paused upon opening it. "Sorry about the rug," she called to him where he stood by his workbench, surrounded by his clutter and his brilliance. "And thank you."

As she exited the workshop, having never expected being allowed within in the first place, she allowed herself a private grin. Though she did not claim to understand how it was that Leonardo had experienced such a dramatic turn of opinion in only a few days and with no direct action on her part, she would be the last to question it. Never had she felt so pleasantly relieved.

It was only once she had reached the marketplace and begun once again to shiver in the bitter cold that she realised she had forgotten to take her cloak from the armchair by the fire. Heaving the heavily laden basket of supplies and food upon her arm, she paid the doctor and hurried back to La Rosa Colta, grumbling as she went.

* * *

"Mary."

"Oh, there you are, miss." The red-headed girl chirped from where she stood, peeling potatoes. Looking up to greet her, her blue eyes widened, watching as she struggled in with the enormous basket. "Tha'... Miss, I didn't ask for all this."

"I know. I had to shop for a friend." She heaved the basket onto the thick wood table of the La Rosa Colta's kitchens and stopped to catch her breath. The kitchen was blissfully warm, and she rubbed her aching arms, shaking out her hair and watching water droplets fall upon the stone floor. Her skin seared with the newfound heat as she rolled her shoulders and massaged a knot in her neck, wincing.

"Well, as long as you got what I asked for."

"Opium, wine, bandages..." she listed, pulling each out as she named them and placing them upon the table. The room flickered with candlelight, and dirty dishes sat by a trough on the wall behind Mary.

"Pears?" the girl asked, eagerly.

She nodded, looking at the younger girl, mildly amused, "And your pears." Pulling them from her basket, she presented them to the red-head.

Mary grinned giddily, taking one from the pile and shining it on her sleeve before bringing it to her mouth and biting into it with a loud crunch. She watched as the girl hummed with pleasure, closing her eyes as she chewed the fruit. "Mm, nothing better than a nice crunchy pear. Would you like one, miss?"

Chuckling softly, she waved a hand, "Don't much care for them myself."

Mary looked at her in surprise, and then smiled toothily, "Well, more for me then."

She chuckled at the girl, but was interrupted by a noise at the door. They turned to find Olive, with her blonde hair and pink lipstick smiling at them awkwardly. Nodding politely in greeting, her gaze was fixed on Mary.

"Mary, Ser Ceruli is soon to arrive. He has asked for you."

A glance to Mary saw the girl's face fall, like a curtain being drawn over a bright, sunny day. Her pear was placed upon the table as she swallowed, the motion now void of all pleasure. With a growing sense of dread, she watched the girl blink several times and then nod weakly to Olive, who gave a tight smile.

"Well," Mary's voice was strained, though she tried for a casual tone. "Duty calls." Mary's chuckle fell flat, and the sound of it wrenched at her heart. She stared urgently at the red-headed girl, who had only moments ago been glowing with eager mischief, and who had now become disturbingly docile. "Which means you'll have to be the one to change his bandages. It's easy enough, miss, I'm sure you can manage." An unsteady smile flittered across her face, and then fell away to nothing.

She didn't answer the girl, who had lowered her head and now refused to meet her eye. Mary slowly travelled around the table and she watched the red-head bury her fists in her skirts to hide how they trembled. Mary took deep, slow breaths, and at last raised her head to meet her gaze, her eyes filled with a tired resignation.

"Mary," she said quietly, searching the girl's face, desperate for her to break out in the light laugh she had come to know and tell her that it was all in jest. Of course she was only a midwife. None would ever dream that she could ever be a...

"Yes, miss?"

"How old are you?"

"Fourteen, miss."

Yet the look in her eyes, and the weary sadness of her smile told her otherwise. She watched the girl bob a curtsey, draw a shaky breath, and then disappear from the room.

She couldn't go after her. She knew she couldn't. Oh, how she wished she could. She would go out there and destroy that man who dared to touch a child with his filthy hands, and she would take Mary and they would leave, and she would watch as this vile place burned to the ground. But this was not her time, and it was not her place. It was not right, and it was not okay, but it was.

Breathless in her rage, she looked at Olive with disgust. The blonde woman sighed, clearly used to such looks. "We, all of us, start young, Signorina. She is happy, all things considered. None of us understand most of what she says. To have someone to speak to in her mother tongue has been a great relief for her. It is good that you have come."

She shook her head at the woman, her eyes hard. "She's too young."

Olive sighed again, gazing at her with desolate pity. "They always are."

She turned from the woman, leaning heavily against the table and staring at the single, crisp bite on the green pear which sat on the wood. With a snarl, frustrated with her utter helplessness, she took up the bandages, the wine and the vial of opium and stormed from the kitchen, leaving Olive to stare after her in silence.

* * *

She had not seen Federico since the day they had arrived.

Standing at his side, she looked over the unconscious man, now dressed in a long white shirt, lying on his front, and noted his pale skin, quiet breath and the deathly stillness of his body. Beyond the rise and fall of his broad back, and the gentle throb of his jugular at his throat, there was not a movement to be seen. Not even his eyes moved beneath their lids. She supposed that she should have been relieved to find that he did not look any worse than she had remembered. However, he did not look much improved, either.

She was no doctor, nor had she ever been particularly good at the biological sciences, but she had the common sense to know that remaining unconscious for near four days straight with no sign of improvement did not bode well.

With a heavy sigh, her heart still fluttering in her chest as she tried not to think of Mary and what was happening to her at this very moment, she placed all in her arms on the bed beside Federico's still body. Glancing at his face with a frown, she considered the possibility that he was already dead. He had lost a lot of blood, after all. Though his body still lived on, how were they to know that the blood had not drained too quickly from his brain and left him in an oxygen deprived state for too long? For all they knew, he would never wake up.

She shook her head, wishing that such thoughts would not occur to her. It was a shame, she thought as she pulled up the covers near his leg, careful not to pull too high, as he wore no pants. He was so young, and handsome too. She inspected the bandage, seeing only a line of red bleeding through, directly over the injury. This was an improvement at least. No longer was his blood soaking the mattress as it gushed from his leg. Mary certainly knew what she was doing.

"Marietta," a small voice called from the doorway.

Startled, she turned to find Petruccio shifting nervously just outside the room, his large eyes wide as he waited for her reply. Releasing her surprised breath, she blinked at him and then offered a small smile. At the sight of it, his tense shoulders relaxed and he slowly stepped within.

"Hello," she greeted quietly.

He nodded with an unsure smile, coming to stand at her side where she knelt by the bed, a hesitant look in his eyes as he watched her. "What are you doing?" he asked with childlike curiousity.

"His bandage is dirty," she explained softly. "So I have to change it."

"Oh."

They were silent as he watched her slowly unwrap the bandage from around his brother's leg. She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, wondering if she should ask how he was, or if she would ever meet his mother and sister, who were being kept in a room upstairs and who had not yet deemed it worthy of their time to see her. Wincing at her thoughts, she scolded herself. They had just lost a husband and a father. She would do well to be more compassionate.

After all, it wasn't as if she couldn't empathise.

She chuckled as Petruccio let out a long, "_Eww_," as she pulled away the last of the dirty bandage but silently agreed with the sentiment. A long jagged line stretched from one side of his calf to the other, uneven and terribly unpleasant. Along the numerous dark stitches, the blood had turned black while red continued to seep from the edge. Grimacing, she took a deep breath and then reached for a cloth and the bottle of medicinal wine, soaking it through before very carefully cleaning the length of the wound.

Petruccio remained silent and attentive during the process, and though she had never done anything like it before, she thought she was doing quite well.

"When do you think he will wake up?" Petruccio asked some minutes later as she finished cleaning the far side of the injury.

She gave a sigh, not wanting to be the one to have this conversation with the young boy, "I'm not sure."

"Do you think it will hurt him, when he wakes up?"

"Yes. I don't think he'll be very happy."

"Do you think he'll be able to walk soon?"

"I don't know."

"...Oh."

The boy fell quiet.

She placed the dirty wet cloth aside and picked up a clean bandage. Fiddling uncertainly for a moment, she decided that she couldn't go too wrong.

"Could you lift his leg, please? Hold it still."

Glad to help, Petruccio gently grasped his brother's ankle and lifted it from the bed, just high enough for her to reach beneath as she delicately wrapped his leg, not too tight but firm. Tying the ends, she sat back and inspected her work. The bandage was rather uneven, and perhaps too loose in places, but it would do. She thanked Petruccio, who released Federico's leg, and he then helped her pull the covers over his brother once more.

"I wish he would wake up," the boy sighed as she gathered up the dirty bandages, and tidied away the extra supplies.

"I know." She touched his head briefly as she passed him, offering what little comfort she could. "I'm sure he'll get better soon."

"I hope so. Maybe he can make Claudia stop crying."

She looked at him. "Claudia is your sister?"

"Uh huh. She's very sad."

"Do you know why?" she asked carefully, watching his face.

The corner of his lips turned down as he frowned. "Father," he mumbled glumly. "He died."

At the crack in his voice, she sighed deeply, and sat down on the sofa near the door. She gently patted the space next to her, and Petruccio shuffled over to sit. He leaned heavily against the back, his hands in his lap and his eyes lowered to watch his fingers twist in the fabric of his tunic.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"I miss him," he admitted. "But I'm not sad," he puffed up his chest, trying to look certain of this even as his lower lip trembled and his eyes became glassy, "because I know he is in heaven with God. He's watching over us." He gave a wet sniffle, sliding lower in the chair. "He doesn't like to see Claudia cry."

Her heart broke for the little man who sat beside her, trying so hard to be strong. "You're allowed to be sad, Petruccio."

There was an imperceptible shake of his head, his voice thickening as he protested. "But I shouldn't be."

Her arm slid around his shoulders as she watched the boy crumble. "But you are," she murmured.

He leaned into her and she held him as he shook quietly, a miserable wetness quickly soaking her front.

"I want Father," he cried. "I want to go home."

She shushed him gently, pressing her lips to the top of his head as she rubbed his back and stroked his hair, feeling his arms tighten around her waist as he held onto her as if for dear life.

Over his dark head, she gazed at the prone Federico, and wondered if she would soon be comforting Petruccio for the death of another family member. Gritting her teeth as tears of empathy burned her eyes, she grimaced at the man and with all of her might, she wished that he would be alright. For Petruccio's sake, she wished that he would wake up.

She closed her eyes to the room, her wish echoing through her mind. In that moment, a tingle spread across her palm and curled lazily up the length of her arm, and then, in the space between where each curl of the strange sensation had travelled, her arm began to burn.

Gasping at the pain of it, a strangled sound escaped her throat and nothing more. Every muscle in her body tensed as her mind seared with flame and then at once, the heat fled her body and pooled in the palm of her hand. Her ears rang with her heartbeat and her head swam as the heat grew and grew, then as quickly as it had come, it was no more.

And from the bed, Federico began to scream.


	4. The Auditores

Paola was the first to respond.

The woman swept into the room like a gust of wind, her pink skirts blowing around her as she went directly to Federico's side, pressing her hands upon the man's back, holding him as he thrashed, his large hands twisted tightly into the mattress and pillow as he bellowed in agony.

She and Petruccio clung to one another, frozen in their shock and horror as they huddled on the sofa, watching as Ezio Auditore appeared in the room, followed quickly by Olive, and a few moments later, a breathless and rather dishevelled Mary.

"Close the door," the madam calmly ordered the red-headed girl, who obeyed at once before hurrying to her patient's side.

Federico made his suffering known, clearly incapable of cognitive thought as he roared and groaned upon the bed. Paola was unable to hold him still, so Ezio brushed her aside, standing over his brother and pressing down on his shoulders to stop him from turning over. Beneath Ezio's firm hold, Federico's body shuddered as his fingers became white from the pressure of his grip on the material of the bed.

And on the covers, above where his injured leg kicked and turned, a dark spot grew.

There was much shouting back and forth as Olive and Paola struggled to keep Federico's legs still while Ezio kept a steady pressure on his shoulders. With shaking hands, Mary searched through her box of supplies, found a small vial, uncorked it and then without hesitation, she grabbed Federico's nose and poured the entire contents of the vial into his mouth.

Federico choked for a moment, and Mary tossed aside the vial and pressed her other hand to his mouth. His eyes were wide as he concentrated on swallowing, and only when she was sure that he had taken it all did she release him. He took in a deep breath and released it in a long moan.

"He should feel tha' pretty soon. I gave him the whole vial," Mary said, sounding shocked at herself as she stepped away to give Ezio more room. "Christ Almighty." She drew in a deep, shuddering breath.

"What will it do?" she asked the girl from where she was still seated on the sofa.

Mary shrugged, coming over to stand near her, briefly meeting Petruccio's wide eyes. "A sip soothes a birthing mother. A whole vial..." she winced uncertainly. "It should let him sleep."

"What did she say?" Petruccio whispered in her ear.

Squeezing his shoulders, she glanced over at Federico, whose movements had begun to lose their vigour, the drug draining the frantic energy draining from his limbs.

Mary swallowed hard, absentmindedly sliding the loose sleeve of her dress back onto her shoulder as she returned to her charge. "I need to check his stitches."

Petruccio made an impatient noise. With a furrowed brow she explained, "She thinks he might have hurt himself. She needs to look at his leg."

A look to Paola, Ezio and Olive found that they had heard, and they now released Federico's limp body and made room for Mary to work.

Petruccio slowly pulled out of her arms, wiping his eyes and standing, "Ezio!" he called to his brother, rushing to him.

Ezio's arms opened to welcome his younger brother into his embrace. "Petruccio," he sighed, hugging the boy tightly. She looked away, giving them their private moment.

"I missed you," Petruccio mumbled into his brother's stomach.

"I know. I have missed you too," Ezio rumbled. "Have you been taking good care of Mother and Claudia for me?"

"Uh huh."

As the brothers spoke, and Olive slipped quietly from the room, leaving Paola to hover beside Mary, watching her work, she found herself entirely out of place.

Shifting uncomfortably, she glanced to Ezio and Petruccio, who appeared wrapped in their own bubble of brotherly affection, then to Paola and Mary by Federico's side, then her eyes fell to her knees as she wondered what it was she was supposed to do.

Remembering the basket she had left in the kitchens, filled with supplies Da Vinci had requested, she thought that she could leave now and never come back. She had been accepted as his assistant, and there was no reason for her to remain where she was no longer needed. Federico had awakened at last, and Mary would be the one to look after him, as Ezio would look after Petruccio.

Now that she was alone in this time, with very little hope of ever seeing her family again, she needed to focus on looking after herself. She supposed that a future as assistant to Leonardo da Vinci wasn't too awful a prospect.

Her mind made, she stood from the sofa and strode out the door, ducking quickly into the kitchen to heave the heavily laden basket into her arms. She continued down the hall, pushed aside the smooth red drapes, marched across the smooth wooden floor, and was soon slipping silently out the front door. Hurrying down the snowy streets, the city glowing in the evening sun, she travelled far from La Rosa Colta and the Auditore brothers, not once glancing behind her.

* * *

Two months had come and passed since she had last seen or heard of the Auditores.

The winter had only grown colder as the year begun in earnest, but the city did not rest, even as the River Arno froze; sellers of blankets and furs became wealthy, and the demand for firewood rose to uncommon heights. The days were dark and short, the sky was near filled constantly with snow, and in the nights, blizzards blew, the frozen winds whistling through windows and in the cracks beneath the doors.

She had never experienced such terrible cold. When, early one morning, she woke near frozen, her hair like ice and the room filled with a frosty darkness, she had gathered her blankets around her and stumbled into the workshop, where she had cocooned herself in the armchair by the fire, and there had fallen into a deep sleep, shrouded in the warmth and light. It was here she now slept each night, going only into her room to change her clothes in the hours before Da Vinci woke.

The hesitant relationship they had established before he had turned her out had strengthened in the weeks since she had returned. She came to know Leonardo da Vinci, and in return, he began to understand her. As it turned out, though she continued to make the occasional blunder, she was not so terrible an assistant as she had once feared, and as the days went on, the walls that Da Vinci had held between them to protect himself from the woman he had believed her to be began to crumble and fall, and it was not long before a tentative friendship started to blossom.

He spoke to her as they worked, and once Da Vinci began it was seemingly hours before he would stop. Sometimes he talked to her about his patrons, or else about something he had seen or heard in the city that day, or about a book he had read, or something new he had learnt or an idea he wanted to talk about. Much of the time he simply chatted about what was on his mind, and she was not surprised to find that there was a _lot. _

Some days, she wondered if he realised that aside from the casual reply to a question or an input of requested opinion, she barely spoke. It did not bother her, for she much preferred to listen, but past experience had proved that some people were wont to mistake her watchful silence for cool apathy. She did not want Leonardo da Vinci, of all people, to think this of her, for it was simply not true. Yet he did not reveal any sign of her silence causing him discomfort, and surely the fact that he continued to talk to her despite it meant that he either didn't mind that she was so quiet or that he understood why she was so.

For aside from the fact that she was clearly content to listen to whatever he had to say, there was a look behind her eyes which warned that there was very little she would be open to speaking about. She knew that he was aware of her sleeping arrangements, and of her fear of the dark, and many of her other issues, the number of which was steadily growing. She tried her best to hide them from him, but there was little that she could shield from those sharp blue eyes of his.

She knew he saw the dark bags beneath her eyes, and the way she would sometimes pause mid-motion to frown blankly at some unknown thought or emotion which flared without context, unattached to any of her scattered memories and yet clearly hers. And she knew he knew about the nightmares. They began the moment her mind relaxed and she began to dream and ended the moment she awoke, breathless in terror. But the worst was the simple fact that she was unable to remember a single thing about the dreams which sent her most mornings into a frenzied panic, and which she had spent many sleepless nights trying to avoid.

The first time it had happened, he had gently probed her, encouraging her to speak of it, as he believed that the dreams resulted from the trauma of her dealings with the Auditores. The look she had sent him had him stammering an immediate apology, backing away from her as if he feared that she would strike him. As the defensive fury began to ebb from her clouded and exhausted mind, she worried that she had once again irreparably damaged the trust which had been growing between them. Yet his eyes held only concern and sympathy as he dropped the subject after telling her that he was there to listen if she ever needed. She had only nodded, and he had not mentioned it since.

As their relationship and her knowledge of artistic technique improved, she was pleasantly surprised to find that she was rather enjoying her new life. She could not remember ever feeling so productive and _useful_. Her days were a whirlwind of activity as she was put to work cleaning or preparing his tools, and he had begun to entrust her with delivering commissions to his few patrons.

It had taken her some time to get used to Florence. She had never lived in a city, or in any place with so many streets. Though it wasn't large, in terms of cities, and the buildings weren't high, in comparison to skyscrapers, it was incredibly unfamiliar to her. But she learned, slowly coming to recognise churches and squares and relying on the location of the River Arno to guide her through the maze of winding roads and walls of pale buildings, many of which looked frustratingly similar. She was proud of the fact that she had only had to ask for directions thrice, and had become near hopelessly lost only once.

It was the same morning that she awoke and was struck by the realisation that she was actually happy here, that the homesickness which had been creeping up on her in the past weeks finally made itself known. She shuffled about, half-listening to Da Vinci tell her about a particularly well-preserved brain he had been permitted to study, staring too long at each thing she picked up, her mind caught in a whirlpool of melancholy, nostalgia and longing as she struggled to focus on anything but the faces of her family and the memory of her home.

She kept her head down, scolding herself and failing in her attempts to pull herself together. It was as she stood by the workbench, absentmindedly watching Da Vinci as he worked, and trying not to look for all the world as if she were about to shatter into a million pieces, that a knock came from the front door.

Being the assistant, it was her duty to answer, so with a sigh she crossed the workshop floor, trudged up the stairs, slid open the latch on the door and swung the heavy wood open.

Her heart thudded in her chest, confused, as all that she could see in the doorway was white. Then a sharp sting shot across her left hand and curled around her forearm, and she blinked as she heard a grunt of surprise, and her eyes registered the sash of red, the glint of silver and the dark cloak, and then at last, the burning gold of his eyes. Her mind became still as she watched those eyes widen in his astonishment to see her standing before him. For several long seconds they did nothing but stare openly at one another, the open door allowing entrance to a gentle but chilled breeze which carried fluffy specks of snow, like leaves in a stream.

She felt the cold swirl at her feet and settle on her skin, and she shivered, her lips parting as she filled her lungs, the air searing the heat of her chest. She saw his gaze drop to her mouth and she blinked as he visibly flinched and next she saw was his narrowed eyes, dark beneath his heavy brow, and the hard line of his lips as he stared down at her in what could only be disapproval.

She felt her own features smooth, only a slight furrow of her brow and a twist of her lips giving away her wary uncertainty. She reluctantly realised that she was expected to speak, to invite him in, or at least greet him, but no words would come to her. Her mind was filled with the stinging pressure of the Mark on her palm and the burning heat of his eyes on her face. Watching, she saw his lips twist and part, clearly intending to speak. Then there was warmth at her shoulder, and Da Vinci's gleeful voice shattered the icy air.

"Ezio! Come in, come in. It is so good to see you!"

Golden eyes released her, his mouth pressing shut, and she gave a relieved sigh as she was forced to step aside as Ezio Auditore, nearly a full head and a half above her height and shoulders double her width, lowered the hood that had shrouded his face in darkness and turned his eyes to Da Vinci, who grinned at him. She watched, her face carefully neutral, as the men embraced, Ezio visibly relaxing at the sight of the artist. It appeared that the two were friends.

After shaking snow from his shoulders and boots, Ezio stepped into the workshop, Da Vinci glancing only briefly to her as she held the door dutifully open for their guest. She closed it softly behind them but made no move to follow, hovering instead by the door and massaging her aching hand with a wince.

Something like this would usually only transpire in Da Vinci's presence, but had been occurring with increasing frequency. The heat of her palm would flare; the sensation would climb to her elbow, and then recede to her hand, settling to a dull tingle. But this was no tingle. Though she did not pretend to understand this strange and unnatural phenomenon, she recognised its significance; it only occurred in the presence of a few, those people that this Mark deemed important, for reasons unknown. And if this theory were anything to go by, Ezio Auditore was important indeed.

Forcing the frown from her features, she steadied herself with a deep breath and then moved into the workshop with nothing to do but to get back to work.

If she had not been distracted before, she certainly was now. The men had their backs to her, leaning intently over something on the workbench, speaking in low voices to each other. She knew it was none of her business; she had washed her hands of the Auditores weeks ago. Yet her palm continued to sting and burn and she grew restless with frustrated curiousity, and she found herself moving slowly around the workshop, edging closer and closer to the workbench, her ears straining to make sense of the low rumbling of their voices.

"Signorina Marietta."

She fumbled with the jar in her hand, startled. Hurriedly returning it to the shelf, she turned to gaze with wide and innocent eyes at the man who had spoken.

"Yes?"

Her eyes met Ezio's and she had to remind herself that there was no reason for her to feel so unsettled. She had long since been assured by Da Vinci that his family truly were innocent of any crime. Seeing him now, by the light of the roaring fire, he looked so young. And though his clothes fit him well, they did not especially suit him.

Most prominent of his attire was not the hood, or the cape on his shoulder, or the sword at his hip, but the large, strange belt tied around his waist, made of silver in the shape of a triangle with its bottom two corners rounded. What appeared to be feathers stretched over the dark buckles holding it, and a deep red jewel glinted at the peak of the insignia.

These were the clothes of a powerful man, standing out above all others, separating him from the faceless masses, and yet his hood allowed him to appear as one of them. They were not intended for casual wear, or formal occasions. They seemed almost uniform. And they were not originally his; that much was clear to see.

He was a large man, with a strong chest and big hands. The planes of his face were hard; the line of his nose, the slope of his brow, the length of his jaw. But it was his eyes that gave away his youth, his inexperience and his self-doubt. He stared at her with intent, but wavered as he saw her watching him, and his self-righteous anger and intimidating stance weren't quite enough to distract from the petulant whine in his voice.

"So, this is where you have been hiding. Leonardo didn't tell me you were his assistant."

Behind him, she saw Da Vinci wince and rub his neck, quietly moving behind his workbench as he often did when he felt uncomfortable. She tried not to shift on the spot and give away her own discomfort. Ezio pouted at them.

"I have been looking everywhere for you. I thought you had left the city. Federico was worried." He waited a beat, then scowled sardonically at her. "He is doing well, by the way, thank you for your concern."

Wincing guiltily, she rubbed her elbow. "How's his leg?"

"It will be fine. In time."

"Mary will take good care of him," she assured him.

He scoffed, "That girl is impossible. She doesn't stop talking and yet no one understands a thing she says. Last week, it took Claudia ten minutes to understand that she asked for more bandages. How am I to know she can properly care for my brother if I can't tell what she is saying?"

Irritation sparked within her and she was quick to defend the girl. "It's not her fault you can't speak English. Mary knows what she's doing." She shook her head, "If she wasn't there for you to misunderstand, Federico might not be alive."

She watched his eyes widen at her words, and then narrow as he pouted. "Well," he huffed, "I may not speak her language," his face brightened and he nodded slightly, "but_ you_ do."

Over his shoulder, she saw Da Vinci look at her in surprise.

Ezio raised his brows. "And it would do Federico some good to have his fears for your wellbeing put to rest."

She gaped as she began to protest. The last thing she wanted was to go back to that brothel. Though her time within its walls was short, it had been more than enough to scar her for life.

"I hardly think it's an appropriate place for me to be seen."

"We will enter through the back if you are so concerned."

She scowled, shaking head firmly, "I don't think it's a good idea." Her palm flared with pain and she flinched, clenching her hand into a fist.

Ezio glowered at her. "So that's it? My family is torn apart, our name tarnished by traitors and you would abandon Federico and... _what?_ Hide here until your aunt receives word of our disgrace and comes to fetch you?" He scoffed derisively, and she was taken aback at the passion of his disdain, almost impressed at Marietta's power to cause such emotion in otherwise pleasant people. "After all my family has done, after all Federico has suffered... and knowing his feelings for you, you would turn your back on him?" he spat.

She could do nothing for a moment but stare at the enraged and disgusted young man who glared at her so fervently. She remembered then how Federico had embraced her beneath the gallows; how he had held her waist, and then her hand, always touching her, always keeping her near. She remembered the look in his brown eyes and how he had sighed the name that had become so familiar, yet was not hers. And it was suddenly so very obvious. He loved her.

No, she corrected herself at once, trying to keep her breathing steady. He loved _Marietta_.

Blinking hard as she forcibly calmed her flummoxed heart, she raised her hands in surrender. "Okay," she quickly conceded. "You're right. I'll see him."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You will?"

She nodded, her mind racing. She would go, just to assure them all of Federico's wellbeing. It was almost her duty, seeing as she was apparently the only one who could translate for them. And they had saved her from the guards, so she was indebted to them. Though she supposed she would never have gotten into that mess if she had never met them in the first place, she thought irritably.

But she had to admit, she did not regret meeting Mary, and Petruccio too, and had grown quite fond of them, so she was not completely opposed to dropping by, only briefly, to see them. And perhaps at the same time, she could make it known to Federico that whatever he and Marietta had between them existed no more. That would be closure enough, she decided. Then she would be free to return to Da Vinci and all would be well, and she would never have to see the Auditores again.

With a small sigh, she looked imploringly to Da Vinci.

"You wish to leave _now_?" he asked her. "Well, I suppose I can spare you the rest of the day. It will give me time to work on..." he trailed off, glancing to Ezio, who had crossed his arms and continued to scowl at her, "other things. Off you go, then. Don't hurry back. This may take some time."

Almost disappointed that the man didn't kick up more of a fuss and spare her what would likely be an uncomfortable and taxing meeting with Federico Auditore, she nodded with a resigned huff and went to fetch her cloak.

* * *

"Marietta!"

"Hello, Petruccio," she greeted the boy as he stepped out into the hall from the direction of the kitchen, followed closely by a young woman she had never met. "How are you?"

"Better," he smiled, and she was touched to see that he was honestly excited to see her. "Where have you been?"

It was then that she noticed the young woman had fixed her dark eyes upon her with the foulest glare she had ever witnessed. She could almost feel the force of it like a physical thing, striking at her with derision and scorn. She shrivelled beneath it, wondering dismally how it could be that nearly every person she met hated her so ardently. It made her all the more curious at who Marietta Sanfilippo had been, and all the more certain that she never wanted to cross the mysterious woman's path.

"Oh, you know," she answered weakly, waving a hand and actively trying to ignore the woman's burning glare. "...busy."

"What are you doing here?" the young woman snapped with no attempt to hide her disdain.

She actually took a step back at the tone of the younger girl's voice, but stopped when she hit a wall. Warm hands held her gently by the shoulders as she stumbled unsteadily, not expecting to find him so close at her back.

"Claudia," Ezio warned from over her head. "She is here to see Federico."

Claudia sneered, crossing her arms. Petruccio looked confusedly between them. "What right does she have to see him? She shouldn't even be here."

"Claudia..." he sighed.

"What if she was one of the traitors? What if she is the reason that Father is—"

She felt him growl, the thin, warm space that separated her back from his chest vibrating with warning as the sound rumbled deeply within him before ripping from his throat. "That's _enough_, Claudia," he snarled, his hands tightening unconsciously where they rested on her shoulders.

She squirmed uncomfortably, feeling trapped between his heat and Claudia's ice. Her wide eyes met Petruccio's gaze, and as she saw the worry and distress in his enormous brown eyes, she couldn't help but pull a face.

The boy blinked, and then snickered, and she couldn't catch herself before she chuckled at the face he pulled in return. The weight of Ezio's hands on her shoulders lightened, and then fell away, and she glanced around to see he and Claudia scowl at her with obvious dislike, and also some confusion.

In the silence as they each stared at the other, Petruccio grinned, apparently dismissing the tension, and reached out to grab her hand.

"Come on," he urged, tugging at her to follow him past his sister and down the dim hall. "He's been waiting for you to come back. Mary has been looking after his leg and changing his bandage when it gets dirty. She's nice. But weird."

She glanced over her shoulder when she heard voices, and saw Ezio and Claudia standing close and arguing rather heatedly, no doubt about her. As they drew out of earshot, she slowed down, drawing Petruccio close and leaning to speak quietly.

"Claudia really doesn't seem to like me."

The boy looked at her and shrugged. "She just doesn't like that Federico is in love with you," he said nonchalantly.

She straightened quickly with a cringe. "Oh."

The boy tugged once again at her arm, and she followed him closer and closer to the door at the end of the hall.

"Once you talk to Federico I want to show you my box of feathers. Mother kept it for me after the guards came. I've got nearly a hundred of them!" he told her, eyes bright with excitement.

"Really?"

"Uh huh! I've been collecting them. Well, Ezio and Federico helped. But they don't know what I'm going to do with them once I collect enough."

She raised an eyebrow. "What are you going to do?"

"It's a secret," he grinned.

She found herself smiling back, even as he pushed the door open and all but dragged her into the room where the injured Federico Auditore waited.

* * *

A part of her had hoped that he would be asleep when she came. Then it would have been easy to simply find Mary, check with her that he was fine, and then say goodbye and leave forever. Yet it was not to be.

Federico sat in the bed, propped up by the enormous, thick pillows, while his injured leg was raised, resting on another pillow, hidden beneath the covers. His nose was deep in a large, leather-bound book, and so absorbed was he in the words on the page that he failed to notice their entry. Glancing around, she saw the room was just how she remembered it; bed, sofas, canopy, cozy fireplace. One of the finest and most private rooms in the brothel.

For not the first time, she wondered why it was that a madam would risk her business and possibly her life in aiding a family of fugitives under her roof. And also, how it was that they had not yet been discovered.

Her eyes landed on Federico once more, and she felt the Mark respond. This was not with the almost soothing tingle of Da Vinci's presence, nor the intense burning of Ezio's, but something somehow... less. And this was comforting.

"Federico!" Petruccio cried, bounding forward and releasing her hand. "Look who's here!"

She watched the book fall from his face as Federico looked at his little brother in surprise, and then his eyes swept the room and found her, standing still and uncertain by the door, and the book was dropped altogether. His eyes widened and he sat forward, drawing in a sharp breath and looking as if he wanted nothing more than to spring from the bed, scoop her into his arms and devour her whole.

She swallowed hard, unable to pull away from his stare and unwilling to draw closer for fear that he would grab her and never let go. The look in his eyes, the passion and hunger and raw emotion... it frightened her. Never, in her entire life, had anyone looked at her like that. It stole her breath and made her knees weak. And she was filled with guilt and a hint of self-loathing when she remembered that it was not _her _that had earned such a look of all-consuming love and powerful need from this man. He did not love _her. _

"Marietta..." he breathed.

Her hands trembled as she moved forward and took her place, not at his side, nor anywhere close to him, but at the end of the bed. She stood at the footboard, wrapping her fingers tightly around the smooth wood.

"Hello," she replied quietly.

A dozen emotions flickered over his face in the instant he realised that she had no intention of rushing into his arms. Pain, rejection, regret, longing, fear... She saw his body tense, his hands coming to fist at the covers near his waist, and for a moment she thought he really was going to leap to his feet and go to her, injured leg and all. But as he continued to stare at her, he saw something in her face which made him still.

"Petruccio," he said, his eyes not straying from her, "Go be with Claudia. I need to speak with Marietta."

Looking rather disappointed, Petruccio sighed, "Okay."

She stopped the boy as he passed, "Could you tell Mary I'm here?"

He nodded and hurried out of the room, eager to do as she asked, and ensuring that whatever conversation followed would soon be interrupted.

She stared after Petruccio, her heart full as she thought of how close he had been to death. The memory of his terrified eyes, the noose thick and heavy around his fragile neck, made her stomach twist and she struggled for a moment with the anger which seared through her veins. With a fortifying breath, she turned from the door and met Federico's dark eyes once more.

"It is good to see that you are safe."

She tried to focus on his words, and not on the memory of Federico standing at his brother's side, staring blankly at the crowd who eagerly awaited his death while his father stood beside him, screaming desperately in vain. With his hands bound and the noose around his neck, Federico had appeared resigned to his fate. But now his eyes shone with emotion and life, even as he remained bedridden from an injury of the extent she did not yet know.

"It's good to see you still alive," she said, proud to find her voice sounding so casual. "You had us rather worried for a while."

"I'm sorry to hear it. But I assure you that I am much improved."

"Are you?" she asked, glancing down at the mound of pillows and blankets which hid his wounded leg from her sight. Federico grew tense, shifting uncomfortably.

"I am," he said, with conviction.

She did not believe it. She had witnessed his injury firsthand. One did not receive a sword through the back of the leg and walk away only a few months later with little consequence. But his eyes were unyielding, and his stare unwavering as he stared into her dubious face with determined certainty. After several long moments, those brown eyes softened and began to wander, and she felt as if he were drinking her in and seeing far more of her than just her physical appearance.

She could almost feel the gentle heat of his eyes as he took note of the dark rings of restless insomnia around her eyes, and the slight puffiness of the bags beneath, as well as the near stubs of her nails as result of her anxious habit of pulling at them with her teeth whenever her thoughts strayed to unhappier topics. These were the only things she were consciously aware of, though she imagined the set of her face; the tension in her body and the guarded look in her eyes would also be noticed by the man. But none of these things did he audibly question, though she could recognise the concern which grew in his features.

"Your hair... it's grown," he stated, and she automatically reached up to touch the black locks. His eyes followed the path of her fingers as they smoothed the length of her hair, pushing it over her shoulder where it hung down her back, restrained only by a long blue ribbon she had found in one of the drawers in the workshop. Her hand dropped to her side and her jaw clenched tightly, watching him as he drew a deep breath.

She shifted awkwardly, uncomfortable beneath the gaze of the man who was, to her, a stranger. Trying to remind herself why she was there, she wondered how Petruccio could be taking so long. Federico's eyes found hers again, and when he spoke, his voice trembled even as his eyes flashed with tentative accusation.

"You left."

Silence fell between them as she watched him battle with himself, anger and hurt becoming prominent on his face before he took control, carefully fixing his features into a carefully neutral expression. She was momentarily envious of his ability, for she knew that her irritation and guilt showed plainly upon her features. Her grip on the footboard tightened as she cemented her determination to keep his gaze.

"I did," she acknowledged stiffly.

She saw him jolt as his eyes found something in hers, and next she knew, whatever tension that had been growing between them left him all at once. His face relaxed as he fell back against the pillows with a breathy sigh, his gaze never wavering. She blinked in perplexity at this unexpected development.

She knew he would have a thousand questions, and likely every right to yell and scream and feel betrayed that she had left him. He had saved her, after all. She had put herself in harm's way, and he had not thought twice about protecting her and dragging her out of it. But instead of rising up and asking where she had been and why she had left and why she had come back, his eyes were glowing as a slow smile cracked his face wide open.

"But you came back," he said.

Her palm throbbed as she stared at the man she did not know who looked at her as though she held the stars in her eyes; as if he trusted implicitly that the reason she had left him was a good one, and as if none of it mattered because she was here now.

Blinking at him, she tried to understand his thoughts. He was angry, and yet now he sat back on his mound of pillows, smiling at her. He had to feel betrayed. If the woman she loved had disappeared in her time of need, she would feel it keenly. And yet his head tilted to the side as he watched her, his eyes dancing as he relaxed into the soft pillows beneath him.

How could that be it? She had to admit that she had very little idea of what to expect from this encounter, beyond her own wishes to set him straight and never set foot in the brothel again, but this was not it. There had been no shouting, no tears, no dramatic declarations of heartbreak or love. Because though she had left, she had come back. And while she had no idea of the implications of this, to Federico, it meant everything.

Ridiculous, she thought as she sagged, leaning against the footboard, massaging her brow. It appeared that it was an impossible situation. Federico Auditore was, at the very least, infatuated with Marietta Sanfilippo. But _she_ was not Marietta. She didn't even know him.

She immediately regretted ever returning here. She should have refused Ezio; been more forceful, more adamant. Instead, she was now faced with a love-struck fool who gazed at her with a steady assuredness that all was well, when in fact one of her reasons for seeing him was to assure him of the exact opposite. Now, with him lying so contentedly before her, she could not bring herself to say the words she knew she must. She did not love him. She would not stay with him. There was nothing between them.

She simply hadn't the courage for it.

"Ah, miss! It is you!"

She had never been more grateful to be interrupted.

The young, red-headed Londoner burst into the room, looking slightly out of breath but as energetic as ever, and she was glad to see her. "Mary."

"I could 'ardly believe it when the little lad said you'd come back to us. What with you up and leaving with barely fare thee well!" Mary huffed, her hands on her hips. But the young girl grinned, clearly just as pleased to see her.

"I know, I'm sorry," she apologised with a wince, ignoring how Federico started, clearly just as shocked as his brother had been that she spoke English.

"As you should be," Mary said, losing the battle to keep her smile from her face. "Between keepin' the mouths fed and _him_ alive, I've barely stopped this past month. Where 'ave you been holed up?" Mary stood close as they conversed, her blue eyes dancing excitedly, and she felt rather sorry to know that this was the first proper conversation the girl had had in months.

"Da Vinci's workshop."

"Oh," Mary clapped excitedly. "He took you back, then?"

"Yes, I've been his assistant for two months, last week," she said, hardly able to keep the considerable pride from her voice.

"I'm glad you were able to talk 'im 'round. What's it like, then, bein' an artists' assistant?" she asked curiously.

"I follow him around, make sure he has all he needs, keep the place clean and in order." She shrugged, leaning now against the footboard, Mary's mere presence relaxing her. "It can get pretty hectic, but it keeps me fed and with a roof over my head, and honestly, I enjoy the work. He's a great artist and a good man."

"So I've heard," Mary nodded, her eyes wide. "Well, I've certainly never 'eard of a Lady like yourself becoming an artists' assistant, but I suppose you do it differently this side of the world." She grinned encouragingly. "As long as you're happy, miss, I'm glad for you."

They shared a genuine smile.

"I am. Thank you."

There was noise from the bed and Mary glanced aside, apparently just realising that Federico had watched them in silence for the entirety of their conversation.

"Buon giorno, Signor," she greeted with a polite curtsey, her cheeks flushing to the colour of her hair. And then in heavily accented and awkward Italian she asked, "You are feeling well?"

Federico glanced to her, his eyes burning with curiousity, before answering the girl. "I'm fine," he replied trimly.

Her brow furrowed as Mary raised her eyebrows and gave a small sigh, clearly not believing his polite reply. Their eyes met, and Mary shook her head and shrugged.

Rolling her eyes, Mary leaned toward her and spoke in quiet English, "He always says he's _fine_. But a wound like that would 'ave to sting, at least."

She frowned, glancing awkwardly at Federico, who looked less than pleased that they were obviously speaking about him in a language he could not understand. It was rude, she remembered, for people to do such a thing. And it was a strange feeling for her to be on the side that was not understood. In her country, English had been considered the national language, and though there were many immigrants in both her school and in the general public, whom she interacted with daily, never had she found herself in the minority. It was a new sensation, different.

"Is he in pain?"

Another shrug. "If he is, he wouldn't say it. Proud as a lion, he is. And just as foolish."

"But how is his leg?"

"There's no infection, and it seems to be healing. Bleeding stopped a while back." The girl sighed heavily through her nose. "Now we just have to wait until his body stitches itself back together."

"And how long will that take?"

"Another month," Mary guessed. "Maybe two."

She nodded pointedly at Federico, lowering her voice slightly. "Does he know?"

Mary waved a hand, looking exasperated and raising her voice in irritation. "Who knows? I try and tell you lot what's what, but all I get is blank stares and people rolling their eyes at the 'dumb little English lass'," she sneered with a long-suffering sigh. "They think I can't understand them when they talk, but I hear 'em."

She looked at her in sympathy, opening her mouth to continue, but they were interrupted by Federico.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, only slightly irritated.

They looked to find him staring expectantly at her, and when she looked to Mary for help, the young girl sniggered, scrunching up her freckled nose as she shrugged exasperatedly.

She cleared her throat, having to think hard for a moment as she slipped between languages. "I am asking Mary about your leg."

He raised his eyebrows, interlacing his fingers and resting his hands on his flat stomach. "And what does she say?" he asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

"It is healing, but slowly. It will be some time before you can walk again."

Emotion flickered behind his eyes and she once again admired the control he seemed to have. "But I will walk?"

She glanced at Mary, who nodded. This time, Federico's relief was palpable.

With a pleased sigh and a liberated grin, his eyes turned to Mary, who flushed deeply beneath his stare. "Will you tell Mary that I am grateful for all she has done for me, and for Petruccio?"

She turned to the girl, intent to relay the message, but stopped when she saw Mary shake her head, looking less than overjoyed.

"He shouldn't thank me," Mary sighed. "His leg will heal, but it will never be as it was. Climbin' the stairs will be near impossible in the first months, and he can likely forget ever runnin' about, or even walkin' without a cane..." The girl shrugged helplessly. "I did all I could, but it is a terrible wound, miss. And it will pain him for the rest of his life."

Both eyes settled on Federico, whose smile faded beneath their melancholic stares. His questioning eyes fell upon her as Mary shuffled sorrowfully at her side. Her cowardice showed its face once again, and she was more than disinclined to be the one to give him such foreboding news. So, she produced a weak, strained smile.

"She says you're welcome."

He didn't believe her. She wasn't surprised.

A hushed silence filled the room as Mary took the moment to check and change Federico's bandages, the only sound breaking the quiet being the man's quickened breathing as the young girl gently handled his injured appendage. Watching the young girl work, she hovered at the end of the bed, twitching anxiously, and watched with some degree of interest.

It was a far nicer experience, watching someone work on a body that was still living. Da Vinci had 'introduced' her to several of his 'models' for the first time, this week gone. Whatever means of preservation he had utilised was not awfully effective, so the cadavers, though moderately fresh – dead barely a fortnight, he had cheerfully told her –, were not by any means pleasant in appearance or in odour. Her mouth twisted as she recalled the shrill volume of her shriek when he had slid a cold, dead, severed hand over her shoulder and pressed the waxy fingers against her neck. Da Vinci had cried with laughter, and she had been too astonished at his unadulterated humour to be truly outraged.

She shook her head to herself, wringing her hands as she watched Mary clean the thick, uneven, dark line of stitches which held Federico's skin together. He seemed pained, but distracted, and she took the moment to swiftly take her leave, feeling the oppressive tension release her the instant she stepped from the room. It was abrupt, she knew, but she had no more to say to the man who so cared about her mysterious doppelganger, and she simply had to get out of that room and have time to gather her thoughts. She glanced down the long, dim corridor before ducking into the warm kitchen.

With a deep sigh, finding it far easier to breathe outside of Federico's presence, she leaned against the thick wooden bench in the centre of the room, reaching up to inspect a bundle of drying leaves which hung from the ceiling. And she wondered not for the first time, nor likely the last, who Marietta Sanfilippo was and where she had gone. And perhaps most importantly, how it was that every person she met believed that she was Marietta.

She twisted and tore at the leaf, lowering her hands and standing thoughtfully in the room, scowling at the doorway and wondering what she was to do about both her mistaken identity, and Federico Auditore. Other than stand on a rooftop and scream that she was not who they believed her to be and that she didn't know or care for that man, her mind developed not a single idea.

But what would happen should she tell them all the truth? They may simply not believe her, or they may think that all the stress of recent events had affected her and she had gone quite mad. Or worse, they would believe her, and they, with the inclusion of Da Vinci, would be disgusted that she allowed them to be so deceived for so long, and then would turn their backs on her, and she would be alone and destitute.

Honestly, she had long since come to terms with accepting that she was to be known as Marietta Sanfilippo, and it had been some time since she failed to answer to that name, so entrenched by it she was. It had seemed an issue that she could overcome in the name of survival, and as Da Vinci's assistant, it had not proved any sort of problem. But now came a man who appeared to care greatly for Marietta Sanfilippo, and this in addition to her spectacular lack of experience in regard to the matter of men's hearts, was something that she had no idea how to begin to handle.

What felt like hours later, Mary appeared in the hallway and appeared pleasantly surprised to find her waiting in the kitchen. The young girl responded to her questioning look with a sigh, coming to stand by her at the bench.

"His leg is as well as can be expected. He's resting now. He did ask after you though, miss." When she did not reply, Mary tilted her head, prodding gently, "If I may be so bold as to ask, miss... is there something between you and the Mr Auditore?"

She drew in a deep breath, trying to keep frustration in check. "No," she said simply.

The girl nodded thoughtfully. "Well, you would do well to tell him that. You see the way he looks at you?" Mary sighed dreamily. "I would do anythin' to have a man look at me like that."

Thoroughly uncomfortable now, she cleared her throat and straightened, brushing off her hands and dropping the tiny bits of plant matter, which was all that remained from the leaf. "Well, you're welcome to him," she muttered, not looking at the girl. And then louder she said, "I best be on my way. I've got lots of work to do."

"Don't we all?" Mary said, looking rather disappointed but smiling in any case. "You will be back, won't you? I know it's not my place to ask, but—"

"We'll see, Mary," she said.

Mary fell quiet and guilt stabbed at her as she noticed the younger girl's downcast look. She smiled tightly as she reached out and briefly clapped her fondly on the shoulder. "Thank you," she told her. Mary started, gaping for a moment before a grin broke across her face.

"There's no need to thank me, miss," she stammered, flushing in appreciation.

She snorted a laugh at the bewildered girl and released her shoulder, moving toward the door. She had done all that was required here. There was a lot for her to think over, and simply standing in this brothel was doing terrible things for her ever growing anxiety. She would return to Da Vinci's and there she would decide what to do from here.

"Fare thee well," she smiled at Mary as she waved loosely and left the kitchen.

"Come back soon, miss!" Mary called after her as she moved with purpose down the corridor, not glancing back at the open doorway at the end of the hall. She had quite enough in her mind, and she didn't need to see Federico Auditore staring after her with those dark chocolate eyes.

Pushing through the heavy red drapes, she lowered her eyes and slunk across the foyer, making hurriedly for the door and trying to avoid looking at the women at work on the sofas, and the men who they attended to. So focussed was she on the dark wood of the door and mentally determining how it was she was to reach the workshop from her location, that she failed to notice Petruccio call to her until he had taken hold of her skirt and she had nearly tripped over him.

"Marietta," the boy whined, apparently not noticing how she struggled to right herself following her shock. "Where are you going?"

Finding her voice once the surprise had ebbed, she answered him rather huffily, "Away."

He pouted, his hand still fisted in her cloak and she wondered if he had been so clingy with Marietta. Remembering how he had tensed beneath her touch and near recoiled when she had reached for him to remove the noose from his neck and held him close as the violence erupted around them, she decided that he had not. But she couldn't help but be touched that he seemed to have become so attached to her. At least his attachment was to _her, _and not to that infamous Sanfilippo woman, she thought bitterly. And perhaps that's why she felt so calm around Mary, for it was much the same. The girl liked _her, _and not the woman she thought she was.

"When will you come back?"

Looking at the small boy, with his scrawny limbs and his awful long haircut, and those enormous brown eyes, her heart clenched and she reached out and scruffed up his hair. "I don't know."

He scrunched up his nose at her actions but didn't move away. "But you will come back?"

"I don't know," she admitted. White flashed in the corner of her eye, and she looked to see Ezio and Claudia standing by the staircase, their arms crossed and their faces set, thoroughly intimidating as they watched her interact with their youngest brother. Immediately her hand fell from Petruccio's head and she tugged gently at her cloak until he released her. Now highly aware of his siblings' stares, she stepped away and sent a short, apologetic smile to the dejected child.

"I spoke with Mary," she told him. "She said that your brother is healing well. He will be fine in a few weeks." Petruccio perked up at this news and her eyes softened. "I'll see you later," she said softly, turning on her heel and sweeping from the room, stepping into the cold street and closing the door of La Rosa Colta behind her.

Pausing to fill her lungs with cold air, clearing her mind and freshening her limbs, she felt the Mark throb sharply. She closed her left hand into a fist, her jaw tightening as she frowned, then pulled up the hood of her cloak and made for the workshop.

* * *

Somewhere in the mess of the workshop floor, a clock struck Three.

Sconces burned on the walls, flickering eerie shadows across the stone as the fireplace crackled comfortingly, the bright orange flames licking at the warm air. Moonlight streaked through the high windows which were coated with frost and dripping with perspiration.

Da Vinci had retired an hour prior, but she knew he would likely be up again in an hour or two. The man simply did not know how to sleep for any longer than a very few hours at a time. Though, it was not as if her sleeping habits were any better. Her ambiguous nightmares continued, some nights worse than others, but she at least, could manage between four and six hours most nights. And always, both were awake before eight o'clock.

She supposed their mutual understanding of their shared inability to sleep allowed them to connect on a deeper level, though she was convinced that the insomnia adversely affected her far more negatively than it did Da Vinci. Well, she amended as she adjusted the heavy pile of books in her arms, squinting at the Latin title of the volume in her hand and searching out the appropriate position on the bookshelf. It affected him in much different ways.

While she became unfocussed and broody, Da Vinci became restless and riddled with energy. Of course, this was expressed alternatively as talkative, productive excitement on one day, and restless, frustrated anxiety on another. On any day, he was impulsive, forgetful, disorganised, and absolutely brilliant. Not that she would ever tell him that, she thought, chuckling softly to herself.

"Jessica."

She started violently, the book in her hand thrown onto the shelf as she frantically searched for balance of the large and expensive volumes in her arms. Turning hurriedly, she made it to the workbench before the pile toppled and clattered loudly across the wood, messing up mounds of paper and overturning a rack of corked inkwells. Sprawled ungraciously across the table, she winced as she tugged her fingers out from beneath the books where they had been caught.

There was movement in the room that was not her own; the sound of someone's breath, and the quiet rustle of clothing. With an aching deliberation, she slowly pushed herself up, her eyes scanning the length of the table until they met its end, and beyond it, they saw dirty brown and sickly grey. Two small, blackened feet stood upon the dark stain on the central rug, knobbly knees bowed slightly inward and were covered by the dank and frankly disgusting murky brown sack-like dress. Slight shoulders, frighteningly thin arms, and long, lank black hair followed, and finally, she met her eyes. Those burning pools of lava and flame were unmistakeable.

"You," she breathed. She did not react to the sensation of her palm as it all but caught aflame, glowing dimly at her side.

The child-like creature blinked slowly at her. She watched in wary suspense as the girl took a step closer, and then another, until she stood directly across the table. Drawing back, she did not doubt for a moment that it would be effortless for this creature to leap across and attack her. There was not one aspect of the girl that did not exude terrible power and dangerous intent as she stared with her eyes like fire.

"In ten days' time, the Auditores will leave Firenze," the girl spoke in a voice that was unnerving in that it was just as a young girl's voice was likely to sound. There was no demonic garble, no eerie or unnatural resonating tones. It was just a voice. It took several moments for her to register the words that the child spoke, and moments more to understand their meaning as she finished, "And you will go with them."

"What?"

"You will accompany them from this city and follow wherever they go."

"What are you—who _are_ you?"

"Go with them. They will lead you to your family."

Stunned into silence she could only stare as the girl's face stretched into a chilling grin. Then the child turned on her heel and glided to the front door.

"W-wait!" She rushed around the table, only to trip on a pile of books at its corner. Gripping tightly to the wood to steady herself, she hissed at her clumsiness, and then threw herself toward the door. "Hey!" In several long strides she had thrown back the lock and dove outside, barefooted and only lightly dressed. Gasping against the cold, her toes curled in the snow and her arms instinctually wrapped around her as she blinked snowflakes out of her eyes, her breath misting in the frosty air as she peered into the empty darkness of the street.

But she was gone.

"Signorina," a gentle voice called, and she turned to find Da Vinci in his nightclothes, holding the door and watching her with confused, concerned blue eyes. "Signorina, what's the matter? What is it?"

She was panting, her lungs dragging in rough, short and uneven breaths as she stared at his face, his delicate features dimly lit by the golden light of the fires within his workshop.

"I—" she stammered, her voice failing her and she shook her head, her wide eyes returning to the icy, pale street, lit only by the cold light of the moon. She shivered in the doorway, her toes growing numb as her eyes burned and her skin prickled with goosebumps. Searching for the small figure in the night. But the streets were empty.

"Signorina," Da Vinci's voice was low and kind as he reached to her, his movements slow and controlled. She flinched from his reaching hand, stumbling further into the darkness with a shaky gasp, eyes wide and confused as her mind was filled with desperate shrieks and was at the same time perfectly silent. The girl's words thrummed through her veins. _They will lead you to your family._

"Signorina, _please_. Come inside where it is warm."

His words drew attention to her quickly cooling skin, and the absolute absence of light and warmth and life which drew at her like snarled tendrils in the form of flickering shadow. Her pounding heart calmed to a steady rhythm, and her deepening breaths filled enough of her lungs to chase away the panic and the desperation which tangled her mind like cobwebs.

Tasting nothing but crisp air and feeling, as cold as she was, somewhere between one world and the next, she tore her gaze from the impenetrable night and looked to the man who waited for her, one hand outstretched but coming no closer to her pale, shivering form. His figure was bathed in warmth, his skin near glowing with youth and vitality and life but where his arm reached to her, that glow was devoured by the night, the shadow cutting a sharp line across his forearm as he delved into the empty darkness, reaching out and silently urging her to join him in the light.

And after a long moment, she drew a breath of ice, letting it fill her being before she raised a hand and placed in within his, feeling his fingers tighten around her own as he drew her to him, swiftly wrapping her in the blanket from his shoulders and closing the door firmly behind her in the same moment. Releasing her hand, Da Vinci murmured soft words to her, too gentle for her chilled ears to recognise, as he pulled the soft, woollen blanket around her shoulders, wrapping it once and again and gathering it around her neck before he softly held her shoulders and guided her smoothly from the door and across the workshop floor to sit her down in the smaller armchair by the fire.

Kneeling at her feet, Da Vinci carefully tucked the blanket around her, his long, deft fingers leaving behind the slightest pressure and only a trace of his warmth. She watched him bundle her from neck to toes in the warmth, and she knew that it was his for her nose was filled with his scent, which she had only tasted briefly around the workshop, when he leaned close, or swept by as they worked. It was cut wood and dried ink, warm wool and wet clay and gentle firelight, and something else that she could not imagine belonged to anyone but Leonardo Da Vinci – something gentle and kind, brilliant and good.

She breathed in deeply, filling her lungs as Da Vinci finished tucking her into her armchair, and raised his head to meet her eyes. The breath caught in her chest as he smiled, his blue eyes shining with assurance and concern. Raising himself from his knees, he eased into his armchair beside her with a gentle sigh. She wondered dimly how he had found her so quickly.

It had not been more than a minute that she had been outside, and she supposed he been awoken by her clumsy fall over the books at the foot of the desk, and if not that, by her call to the creature, but even so. Had he been awake and listening for her? Or was he so light a sleeper that the slightest disturbance had him perfectly alert? Tucking her chin into the loose collar of her woollen cocoon, sighing quietly as the cold was chased from her skin and glowing warmth coated her flesh and filled her limbs, she glanced to the man who had put it there.

"I'm sorry," she said, her voice a whisper. "For waking you."

He frowned and shook his head slightly and dismissively. "Why were you standing out in the cold?" he asked, gentle and probing and assuring all at once that he was not angry, and that she was safe.

She felt her lips quiver and was glad they were hidden in the fold of plush material around her chin. She shrugged.

"Was there someone here? Did someone try to come in?"

"No," she lied. How could she tell him that a strange creature in the shape of a child had appeared in his workshop and had given her orders which, should she followed, promised to lead her _home?_ "I thought I heard – but there was no one. I'm fine."

His brow furrowed further. "Are you?"

"Yes," she lied again, determinedly attempting to appear earnest, but a frown creased her brow. Da Vinci was silent and yet she felt the same as if he had taken her shoulders and begun to shake her vigorously, shouting in her ear and demanding to know what was wrong. But were they close enough friends for him to ask this of her?

She was his employee; his assistant, and he was her boss, her master. They had long spoke of entertaining and intriguing things; of the colour of the sunset, the pale shimmer of snow and the cold glow of the moon, of the haughty disdain in a young woman's eye and the thick-headed foolishness of young men, and the unfounded arrogance of the elderly.

She had followed his orders and had opinions on the things for which he asked for them. But never had they spoken of their families, or any such topic which was so personal. And how he asked her of this now, lit by the steady warmth of the flames before them, with she bundled comfortably in a plush woollen covering from his own bed as they sat across from one another in the early hours of the morning. This was an intimacy for which she was unprepared, and though it was not unpleasant, it was unfamiliar. And she knew that she could not tell the truth of the night, nor many other truths which had so upturned her world, she decided that it could not be such a terrible thing to tell a simple truth.

So with trembling fingers and downcast eyes, and with a voice thick with emotion she had not expected to express, she admitted at long last, "I miss my family."

It was a long moment before Da Vinci released a slow, sad breath and said, "Ah." And then, after a moment more, sat forward in his chair and fixed his gentle blue eyes upon her, patient and still. "Speak, Signorina," he said. "And I will listen."

"There is not much to say," she shrugged, avoiding his eyes, feeling vulnerable and reserved at once, a terrible mess of raw emotion and defensive urges to bottle it up and speak no more. "Beyond that I miss them."

"I am sorry to hear it," he told her, with eyes so deep and a look so true that she did not begin to doubt the depth of his sympathy. "I have heard only rumours of their terrible fate. I can hardly imagine how you have suffered from such a loss."

She shook her head, at both his meaning of Marietta's family as those of whom she was speaking, a fact she could not possibly tell him was untrue, and also in confused curiousity at his words themselves. "Rumours?"

Da Vinci ducked his head at once, flushing shamefully. "Forgive me, it is impolite to gossip, I know. But such stories were prevalent during that time," he shrugged, gesticulating as he spoke. "The Sanfilippos were renowned as highly private recluses, though I recall they were always well respected in good society. So, to hear that they had been all but lost in a fire that destroyed much of their home and ravaged their lands was inevitably a popular topic of conversation. The question of who had survived and who had not, and who was left to inherit the Sanfilippo properties and fortune was rife, even within common circles."

She snorted lightly, "I'll bet it was."

He flushed again, chuckling softly as he rubbed his neck, looking into the fire. "As I said, Signorina, it was but ignorant rumour. I presume to know nothing of the matter, beyond of course, what I know to be certain," he said, with a nod and a gesture to her.

Confused and ignorant of the event of which they spoke, she cocked her head and saw more opportunity to learn of the woman she was mistaken to be. "And what is it that you know?" she inquired.

He took a breath and then said slowly, thoughtfully, and with great care for precision. "That you, alone survived the fire that killed all your family. Your father's step-cousin, Lady Giorgia, your only surviving family, cared for you until you were sent to Florence to live with your late-father's old friend, Giovanni Auditore, and his family." He looked at her then, with a serious eye and a voice stern with respect, "And that you, alone, are to inherit your family's vast lands, their title and grand fortune on your twenty-first birthday. Contessa Sanfilippo. Quite a responsibility for one so young."

She was silent then. And what could she say to such news? Sitting back in her chair, she tried to consider all that he had told her, but found it impossible. A countess? How could _she _be a countess? The mere thought of herself as any kind of nobility, or of inheriting anything from anyone was simply laughable. Her family were small and modest and were of the working middle class. They were not of vast lands, title and great fortune. The only thing she was to inherit upon her parents' death was her mother's collection of vintage teacups, and they were certainly not worth much.

But that was just it, wasn't it? This was not her family they spoke of. She stared into the fire, watching the flames embrace the wood even as they licked at the sky and was suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion that tugged at the corners of her mouth and filled her tired eyes with burning tears that she fought from spilling over. Wiping her face on the woollen blanket in which she had been cocooned, she pulled her legs onto the chair, her knees to her chest and adjusted the blanket until she was a ball of warmth and weary misery.

"I do not mean to upset you, Signorina."

She sniffed and looked at him with eyes wet and red and filled with gentle regard. "You haven't," she promised him. "It's just hard sometimes. Some days more than others." A long, deep breath filled her lungs and she held it for several beats before releasing it once more. She tucked her chin into the blanket and closed her eyes. "Sometimes I look around this place, around this city, and I recognise nothing and no one and I hardly know who I am. I don't know what I'm supposed to do.

"And I dream that I am home and my mother is waking me for school and my sister is pulling my hair and my brother is swinging off my arms and pleading for me to play with him. Then I wake and I am here and they are gone and I just…" She fell into a shudder, tightening further into a ball as she struggled to recompose herself. "I don't know what to do."

Da Vinci sighed, and she opened her eyes to see him staring into the fire and nodding sadly, and her heart clenched to see the real emotion in his face. He truly felt for her. She watched him pick at a loose thread on the arm of his chair, frowning thoughtfully for a long moment before, without looking away from the flames, he spoke to her in a quiet, subdued tone.

"I was sent from my family when I was fourteen. I was practically a man, but I remember it was difficult. I had lived my boyhood years at my father's estate, and before that, with my mother, but I was not close with either. It was my uncle, my father's brother, Francesco, who raised me, and put me to work on the land, while my father spent his time here in Florence, a notary-in-training." He rolled his eyes then, and she was still as she listened carefully to his tale, as his voice grew weary,

"I suppose it would to do mention that I was born a bastard," he winced, but did not shrink of shame. "My mother raised me until I was of three years, and then I moved into my father's home. Then she met a man and married him. I have, I think now, seventeen half-siblings, from both my mother's and father's marriages. I have met very few of these siblings, and do not think I shall ever meet more. There is little want for the company of a bastard, I've found." He gave a bitter chuckle.

She stared at him a long while, and began to wonder why he would tell her all of this; what it meant for their relationship, what it meant to him, before at last she stopped and simply appreciated that he trusted and liked her enough that he _had. _Then she laughed, a small, sad sound, and said, "I guess we are both without family."

He looked at her and nodded, his eyes sparkling earnestly in the firelight. "But that does not mean that we do not belong. And it does not mean that we shall amount to nothing. I was born a bastard, and now I have my own business, my own studio. And with any luck, I will have some success in it. You will be Contessa; you will have a great responsibility to your house, to your name, to the people who work your lands and whom you must rule over and protect. That is," he chuckled, "if you ever decide to stop running away."

She gave a small smile and an even smaller shrug. Da Vinci yawned hugely and she followed in turn. He grinned at her, his eyes alight and his hair aglow, "But I suppose that, for now, we must be content with being an amateur and a runaway." He shrugged, "Greatness comes with time and hard-work."

"You are _not _an amateur," she protested at once.

"And you are much too kind to be a contessa," he said.

They chuckled lowly and then went to bed.

* * *

Ezio Auditore found her the next morning.

She worked in the courtyard beside the workshop, scrubbing and cleaning their bedsheets and hanging them from rope strung across the space. She saw him pause in the arched entranceway and watch her work, her arms drenched to the elbow, the front of her plain dress soaked, and sweat making her hair stick to her face.

He did not speak, and she did not acknowledge him, until she had hung the final sheet.

Out of breath, her cheeks flushed and sure that she looked as hot and disgusting as she felt, she wiped her brow with the back of her hand and then turned to him, hands on her hips and squinting in the uncommonly bright sunshine. Her breaths came in gentle puffs of warm mist, curling lazily in the cool air. Snow was piled high upon the benches and garden beds around the yard, flakes sparkling like diamonds in the cold sunlight, and though the cold bit at her skin and her fingers were numb from the now freezing water, she was warm from her work.

"Good morning, Signorina," Ezio Auditore called as he stepped beneath the snow-speckled archway and into the courtyard. Dressed in his white robes, hood down, his olive skin and dark pants were stark against the pure blinding snow.

"Hello," she greeted politely, wishing that he wouldn't look at her with such unpleasant suspicion.

Eyes flickering to and from the large bucket of soapy water and the quickly-freezing sheets hanging from the line, she watched him try to make sense of what she was doing. Shuffling awkwardly and rubbing her cold hands together, she supposed he would be confused to see a countess doing laundry.

"Ser Da Vinci is out and won't be back until noon, so you'll have to come back then if you want to speak to him," she told him.

He shook his head, frowning unhappily as he watched her attempt to breathe life back into her cold fingers. "It is you I came to see. Perhaps we should speak inside. You're soaking wet, Signorina, you will catch your death." The hint of legitimate concern in his youthful, rich voice made her brows rise in surprise.

The cold had never been that much of an issue for her, but she supposed in this day and age, something as simple as the common cold might certainly be enough to cut one's life short. What caused her far more alarm was that Ezio Auditore had come to speak to her.

Her short hesitation appeared to be too much for the young man, as he strode forward and took up the laundry bucket, a great heavy wooden thing filled with cold water mixed with lye soap, into his arms as if it were not so incredibly heavy as she knew very well that it was, and he went to the snow-covered garden bed and emptied the dirty water onto it, shaking out the bucket at arms-length before turning back to her and gesturing for her to lead the way out of the courtyard.

Wiping her numb hands on her skirt, she nodded gratefully to him, flushing only slightly as she tried not to imagine the muscle hidden beneath those robes as he held the laundry bucket in his gloved hands. Shaking her head at herself, she made her way out of the yard and through the door of the workshop, with Ezio Auditore trailing close behind.

Inside, the warmth from the fireplace near scorched her frozen skin and she tried not to wince as she quietly gestured for Ezio to place the bucket to the side of the stairs, while she closed the front door behind him. Wanting to change out of her wet clothes as soon as possible, she nevertheless remembered to offer her guest a drink, which he accepted.

Returning and placing the drink upon the small table by the chairs and the fireplace, she saw that Ezio was distracted by Da Vinci's newest commission, so she hurried up the stairs and changed quickly, patting her cold skin dry and hanging her wet dress over the back of her chair, meaning to take it downstairs to dry by the fire once Ezio had left.

As she watched, he sniffed it, gave it another sip, shrugged and then placed the cup onto the table. She eyed him warily as his eyes settled upon her.

"Signorina," he said.

"Yes?" she asked, carefully.

He stared at her for a long moment, before he took a deep breath, looking only mostly pained as he looked away, giving a small shake of his head and rubbing the back of his neck. "I had hoped that the city would forget us, but it seems that the Pazzi are driving the hunt for my family. It is no longer safe for us in Florence."

Ezio paced as he spoke, slowly along the length of the workbench, his eyes apparently fixed to the papers and open books upon it, his hand lightly trailing along the edge of the wood. Though his eyes were not upon her, she shifted uncomfortably, wringing her hands and knowing that even so, she held his complete attention.

Pausing when he reached the midpoint, directly across the table from where she stood, he drew a long breath and his dark golden eyes rose to her face. "I will take my family to Monteriggioni, to my uncle. My brother has requested that you accompany us."

"Your brother?" she asked, and he nodded. "Which one?"

He sighed, "Both of them."

Her eyes dropped to the floor, tracing the patterns in the hardwood as she swallowed her astonishment. The girl-creature had told her of the Auditores imminent departure, and the necessity of her going with them. She supposed that she shouldn't be so surprised.

"I see," she said. "When do we leave?"

Ezio blinked, appearing momentarily stunned. "So you do want to come?"

Frowning at him, she asked, "Did I ever say differently?"

Matching her look with a deeper glower of his own, he shook his head, near rolling his eyes as he huffed. "Well, it is certainly a surprise. You haven't exactly been warm toward any one of us these last months."

Her eyes narrowed as she shrugged. "Can you blame me?"

Ezio's face hardened. "I suppose not," he said, walking slowly around the table. "Though it wouldn't hurt to at least try to pretend you still care for Federico. He is no less of a man now than he was before his leg was injured, and he is still far better a man than a woman like you deserves."

Too shocked to remember to be offended, she found herself laughing in astonishment. "Wow," she said. "You really do hate me, don't you?"

"My brother has been through enough."

"Oh, and I haven't?" she asked, growing quickly irritated. "Do you forget that I was there at the gallows? I helped your brothers escape. I ran from the guards. I helped you carry Federico, bleeding through the streets."

"And then you left. When he needed you, you ran away to live with a painter," he spat, gesturing at the workshop. "You avoid coming to La Rosa Colta, you refuse to even go near him, let alone speak to him!"

"I've spoken to him," she protested.

"Barely," he sneered.

She shook her head, "What it is you want from me, Ezio? What are you attacking _me_ for?" She crossed her arms, eyes narrowed. "What _exactly_ are you trying to say?"

Glaring at her, his chest rising and falling with his incensed breaths, he ground out the words, "You should have stayed."

"But I_ didn't_," she cried, throwing up her hands. "Okay," she nodded, "maybe I should have. But I was alone and I was scared and I ran away. Is that so hard to understand?" she asked, laughing incredulously, gesticulating wildly. "So why are you treating me like I'm the enemy?"

"Are you?"

She blinked, confused. "Am I what?"

His glare was different now; his anger cold. A shiver of warning ran down her spine and she stood taller, watching him warily now. His hands tightened to fists and his jaw was set as he loomed over her, even metres away, those golden eyes flashing as he asked in a voice that was as dispassionate as it was terrifying.

"Are you one of the traitors who betrayed my family?"

Searching his eyes, she could hardly understand what he was saying; it was so ridiculously out of the blue and absolutely wrong. She shook her head, "What are you saying?"

There was no hesitation as he repeated himself, taking a threatening step toward her. "Did you betray my family?"

"No!" she cried, stumbling back into a chair laden with piles of books. The chair tipped as she tripped and caught herself, the books scattering across the floor. Steadying herself, her heart pounded in her chest as Ezio took another step forward, closing the distance between them.

Her hands raised before her as if to stop him, the steadily growing heat of the Mark on her left palm seeping up the length of her forearm. Dread reeled within her, and she dully wondered if he was actually going to hurt her. At that moment, she realised there was a very good chance of it.

"Why should I believe you?" he snapped, taking another step forward, until he was truly looming above her. Her chin tilted up to see his face, as she froze completely in the shadow of his hulking form and the burning gold of his eyes. He was so close now that she could feel the heat of his large body, could smell the subtle tang of his sweat, and could see the bags beneath those impossible eyes, dark against his olive skin.

"My father is _dead!_" he snarled.

And the fear was swept away by the wave of fury that filled her, strengthening her spine and stilling the trembling in her fingers and flushing her cheeks with heat. Stepping out of his shadow, she shook her head in disgust at his audacity, at his attempt to frighten and intimidate her, at the _nerve _of him to accuse her of such a terrible act.

She stepped away from him, her teeth bared and her eyes wild as she turned on him, her body thrumming with the pounding of her rage and the beating of her heart. The change in demeanour seemed to take him off guard as she struggled to find her words, to articulate her furious outrage. Her cheeks burned as she shook her head, throwing up her hands, barely resisting the urge to slap them across his face as she snarled at him.

"So is mine!" she cried, and saw him flinch away in surprise, apparently unprepared for her angry retaliation. "You think I have a happy family waiting for me somewhere? No, my mother, my brother, my sister. My entire family is _gone_. This is all I have." She gestured wildly to the workshop, the Mark throbbing on her hand. "So for what possible reason would I have to destroy your family? How dare you come into my home and threaten me, and accuse me of such a thing. How_ dare_ you."

The young man's shoulders slumped as his face slackened, the fire leaving his eyes and filling with what could only be described as shame before they were turned from her. He stood before her then and was no longer a creature of anger and vengeance, but a boy who had lost everything, who was exhausted and in pain, and now who knew he was wrong. But that did not mean she would forgive his cruel words or for frightening her so.

Her arms crossed firmly over her chest, her eyes cold and hard though her voice shook with her emotion. "I think you should go." She nodded toward the door as he glanced up at her. "_Leave._"

And he did, striding up the stairs, tugging open the door and slipping out without a word or a backwards glance. It closed firmly behind him, and at the sound, her hard façade fell and she gasped, bending in half and falling into the chair she had tripped over as she took long slow breaths, trying to calm down. Dropping her face into her hands, she listened to the crackling of the fire and the dull sounds of the city outside the door through which Ezio Auditore had fled.

Her heart pounded and her muscles were tight as she moved to stand before the fire, hugging herself. Her mind was in tumult as the confrontation echoed in her mind. The thought of anything else, the idea of having to perform her duties and chores today was simply impossible. She found herself staring into the flames as she slowly began to calm, thinking over Ezio's words, the most prominent of which, beyond accusing her of wanting his entire family dead, revolved around the issue of her avoiding his brother.

And the more she thought of it, the more incremental it seemed, and it became clear to her that it this could no longer continue. If the plan was to accompany the family out of Florence and to their uncle's home, then it was obvious that she was going to have to have allies amongst them; allies that she could talk to and interact with without fighting or awkwardness or intimidation or flat-out threats. Meaning that she had to deal with the Federico issue, sooner rather than later.

He was the eldest brother, which meant he had the most authority, so whether or not Ezio or Claudia or any of the others liked her or not would be no matter if she could play her cards right with Federico. At the same time, there was the issue of his romantic feelings. These had to be discouraged, though tactfully, so that he would not feel vengeful or scorned, but enough so that he would not expect anything from her. That was sure to be a trial, if the way he looked at her was any indication.

"Damn it," she sighed, collapsing into her chair.

* * *

"Marietta, you're back!"

"Hello, Petruccio."

"Look what Ezio bought for me!"

Business was slow this morning at La Rosa Colta, it seemed. Petruccio danced around her excitedly, showing off a small toy made of wood, carved in the shape of an eagle. She had barely walked through the front door before he was upon her, having seen her approach from an open upstairs window where he had been sitting, playing with aforementioned toy eagle.

"That was nice of him," she said distractedly, pulling off her green cloak and hanging it over her arm as she looked warily about for the other Auditores. There didn't seem to be anyone else around.

"It's an eagle," Petruccio grinned, presenting it to her. The corners of her mouth upturned, her eyes softening as she finally paid him attention. Taking the carved bird, she inspected it, admitting silently that it was rather impressive.

"Are eagles your favourite animal?" she asked, handing it back to him.

"Uh huh," he nodded.

"Any reason why?"

He thought for a moment as they started walking toward the curtain-draped hallway toward the private rooms and the kitchen.

"I like them because they can fly," he finally declared.

"But most birds can fly," she countered. "What makes you like eagles in particular?"

Petruccio shrugged, smiling at his little carved eagle and winding it through the air above him, making it fly. "I just like them."

She chuckled, nodding as she held aside the heavy red drapes, standing aside to let him through before following after. "Fair enough," she said as they walked down the darkened hall.

Looking around, he realised where they were headed. "Are you here to see Federico?"

"Uh huh," she said, rubbing her neck anxiously. They stopped at the kitchen, and she peered inside, hoping to find Mary, but the room was empty. "You seen Mary about?"

"I think she went to the markets," Petruccio shrugged, and she nodded in response. "Are you going to leave after you talk to Federico?"

"Yeah, probably," she answered. "I've got a lot of stuff to do today."

"Oh," he mumbled, looking downcast, fiddling his eagle between his little fingers. Her brow creased as she looked at him and wondered if he had someone to play with, or even talk to. He was so young, and this was such an adult place, and with Federico resting and his other family members doing who-knows-what, he must feel terribly bored and alone.

"You know," she said, slowly, "I could really use another pair of hands around the workshop today. If we ask Federico really nicely, maybe he'll let you come and help me out."

The boy's eyes lit up and his face brightened, his enormous toothy grin returning as he gasped, clutching the eagle to his chest in excitement, "You mean it?"

She nodded, reaching out to scruff his hair affectionately. "'Course I do. But I have to speak to Federico first. Then we'll ask him together, okay?"

"Okay! I'll wait here. You speak to Federico!"

Chuckling at his enthusiasm, she nodded. "Alright, I'll speak to him."

He ran off down the hall, waving over his shoulder before disappearing behind the red drapes. She waved back weakly til he was out of sight, then took a deep breath, turning to face the end of the hall and Federico's closed door. "Okay," she whispered to herself as she slowly approached. "You can do this."

At the door, she hesitated, staring in apprehension at the dark wood and the dull brass handle. Then, with a bracing breath, she raised her hand and knocked lightly then gripped the cool handle and slowly opened the door.

First that she noticed was the empty bed. She stood in the doorway, hand still on the door, and blinked at the smooth covers, the plush pillows, the empty space where Federico had been last. She wondered if she had somehow come to the wrong room.

"Marietta."

She turned toward the voice, releasing the door and letting it swing gently shut behind her.

And there he stood.

His back to the closed window, his form bathed in the white light of the chilled city, Federico stood, dressed in a loose white shirt, dark pants, and with no shoes or socks upon his feet. She slowly took in his height, far above her own, just like his brother, though he was leaner than Ezio, his muscles lean. Not as typically handsome as Ezio, he was infinitely more approachable; the look in his eyes a weary acceptance rather than Ezio's stewing rage. He shifted uncomfortably beneath her stare, grimacing slightly as he did. And then she saw the cane; a long dark walking stick.

He leaned on it heavily, though as she watched, he tried to put more weight on his leg, and the more he tried, the tighter his jaw became, the more firmly he held the rounded top of the stick which held him upright. But he squared his shoulders and smiled at her, as if she couldn't see the pain flashing in his eyes or how his hands trembled.

"Nice to see you out of bed at last," she said, with a slightly awkward smile.

He chuckled, "It is good to be on my feet again." Then he grimaced.

Stepping forward quickly, she was ready to help him, but he waved her off, giving a tight laugh as he leaned upon his cane, relieving the weight from his injured leg. "I'm fine," he said, through gritted teeth.

"Maybe you should sit down?" Ignoring how he shook his head, his face stern and determined, she stepped closer again and gestured to the bed. "Please. I don't want you to push yourself."

He held out for a long moment, apparently more stubborn than she knew, and then conceded with a sigh. "If you insist."

Forcing herself to allow him to make his own slow, limping, pained way to the bedside, she remembered what Ezio had said. Federico was no less of a man now than he was before, and that idea had not even crossed her mind let alone be considered as truth. Clearly, however, it had crossed Federico's. And as he eased himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed, straightening his injured leg before him, he did not meet her eyes, or even look her way. Instead he brought the cane to his lap and held it tightly between his hands, and did not speak.

She hesitated for a moment before she quietly made her way to the bed, leaving a fair amount of space between them as she sat at his side. Looking at the cane, she noticed that it was more than just a simple stick, but a finely carved wonder. Flowers, grapes and vines wrapped around its bulbous handle and curled down its length, and wood was smoothed and varnished and polished til it shone. It was a thing of beauty. But Federico looked at it as if it were hell itself.

Looking away, she looked down at her own lap, wringing her fingers and sitting quietly for a long moment before at last she drew in a breath.

"I don't hate you," she told him.

He looked up, blinking at her a moment before he smiled in confusion, a slight crease in his brow. "I never thought that you did."

"I'm sorry for leaving you and for not trying to explain," she said, frowning unhappily at her hands. "I'm sorry for avoiding you."

"Marietta," he stopped her, reaching out to lay his hand, large and warm, over hers. Her eyes rose to meet his concerned gaze. "Where is this coming from?"

She sighed, "I spoke with your brother."

He gave a low groan and shook his head, his eyes darkening. "What did he do?"

"Nothing," she shrugged, and then sighed heavily, avoiding his eyes as she glowered at the floor. "He thinks I'm the reason your father's dead. He thinks I betrayed you."

His hand tightened over hers and he growled. "Pezzo di merda," he swore under his breath. "I'll strangle the fool. The nerve of him! Where did he get such a ridiculous idea? Marietta, are you alright?"

Ignoring his question, and trying not to crack a smile at the insults, she looked at him. "He said that you were leaving Florence and going to live with your uncle."

Though clearly incensed at the nerve of his brother, Federico's eyes softened and that little crease appeared on his brow. "Did he ask if you would come with us?"

"Yeah," she nodded.

His thumb rubbed circles into the back of her hand. "And what was your answer?"

She met his worried gaze with a close-lipped smile that did not meet her eyes. "Yes."

The sigh of relief that he gave could have blown away mountains, flown high a kite and put out a roaring fire all at once. His dark chocolate brown eyes shone with affection as he took one of her hands in both of his own and cradled it between them. She thought to pull away, to say then what was so incremental to her comfort and safety, but no words came to mind.

But as Federico's eyes squeezed shut for a long moment, before opening again, his long, warm fingers gently massaging her hand almost thoughtlessly, she was struck by the look upon his face; the gratitude, the wonder, the awe and the pain. His eyes roamed her face freely as he spoke, and she felt frozen beneath his gaze.

"I know that these last months I have demanded too much of you," he said, his voice low and soft. "I have failed to take care of you. My father is dead, yet I am still expecting him to walk through that door with Mother at his side, and scold me for getting myself hurt," he nodded toward the door, a watery smile flashing upon his face before he swallowed hard and shook himself, his eyes finding her again, gleaming with emotion.

"But you saved us, Marietta. You helped us in our time of need when it would have been far better for you to have cut ties and forgotten us. You stayed then, when it mattered, and you came back in the end." He squeezed her hand. "I cannot ask that you love me as you did, now that I have caused you so much pain, but I ask that you let me keep my promise to love you and care for you, even though I am not the man I was."

"You're no less now then you were then," she told him at once, squeezing his hand in return. She frowned then, and gave a short sigh, "I'll come with you to your uncle's, but I cannot give you any promises."

Her stomach clenched and her breath caught as he lowered his face to their hands and pressed his lips softly against her skin. When he raised his head, he gave her a sad but hopeful smile. "To have you safe and well within my family's walls is all that I ask."

And that was that, she supposed. She would promise him nothing, and in return for his acceptance, she would let him care for her and keep her safe. It was all that she had hoped for, and yet she knew that it would not remain so simple. But for now, she would take what she could and worry about what would come when it came.

"I'm sorry about your father," she told him quietly.

He nodded, patting her hand. "As am I," he murmured. Then, drawing a deep breath, his features changed; smoothing and lightening as a smile far more pleasant than morose appeared on his lips, and his eyes sparkled as he looked at her. "Now please, tell me of yourself," he said, with a nod and a curious rise of his brow. "I hear you have been keeping quite busy."

Her face scrunched as she shook her head and protested with a soft snort, "My life really hasn't been that exciting."

"It cannot be more dull than being trapped in this room for months on end," he chuckled. "Come, you owe it to me."

His crooked smile made her laugh and she conceded with a resigned nod, settling beside him on the bed and filling the air with the detailed telling of her mundane life. Federico Auditore listened to each tale with rapture, never letting go of her hand.

* * *

"Marietta! Marietta! What's this?"

"Don't touch that."

"But what is it?"

"It's a… actually, I don't know what that is. Just don't touch it."

"Okay." There was a short pause as he moved through the workshop. "Can I touch this?"

"No. Don't touch anything."

"What about this?"

"Oh my god. No."

"Okay."

With a heavy sigh, she turned around and pulled the material taut over the wooden frame, taking one nail from her mouth and lining up the hammer in her hand. There was a creak, a grind, the sound of something large swinging through the air and then a resounding thud, followed by a tumble of heavy books and papers crashing to the ground and finally a low, _"Whoops."_

Dropping the hammer in fright, she spun around to find Petruccio standing guiltily by the board, which was no longer upright, and had apparently flipped, struck the table before it and knocked everything from atop it. At Petruccio's shuffling feet were scattered books and parchment and quills and miscellaneous bits and bobs of wood and metal alike. She stared at this with wide eyes, and then looked accusingly at the boy.

"_Petruccio."_

He gave a shamefaced wince, turning his wooden eagle in his hands. "Sorry."

She sighed, placing the half-made canvas aside and moving to help him clean up his mess, when the front door opened in a flurry of wind and snow. The sconces danced on the walls and the fire roared at the invasion of cold air, as in shuffled Da Vinci, dressed warmly in his cape and layered clothing, holding his beret to his head and a pile of firewood tightly to his chest. Kicking the door shut behind him, he shook off the snow like a dog and then moved into the workshop.

"Buona sera, Signorina," he greeted happily, his nose and cheeks red. "I trust you have had a fine day?"

Brushing herself off, she hurried over and relieved him of the wood, smiling as he nodded his thanks, tugging off his gloves and rubbing his pale fingers as he followed her to the fireplace. "I did," she answered. "It helps that it's nice and warm in here."

"Indeed," he smiled, warming himself before the fire. "I hear there is to be a storm tonight, so best make sure that the windows are properly shut."

Nodding as she added the wood to the pile, she turned just as Da Vinci noticed that they were not alone.

"Ah!" he grinned, turning to the bashful Petruccio. "And who do we have here? Mi dispiace, my boy, I did not see you."

Petruccio blushed deeply, ducking his head and looking at his little wooden eagle, glancing up at her as she chuckled and walked over to place a comforting hand on his back.

"This is Petruccio," she told him. "Ezio's brother."

"Ah, yes. Maria's youngest." Leonardo's blue eyes shone as he greeted the shy boy. "I have had the pleasure of meeting your mother and both of your brothers before, but I do not believe we have ever met." Stepping forward, Da Vinci gave a flourishing bow that made Petruccio giggle. "Greetings, young ser. I am Leonardo Da Vinci, at your service."

Petruccio gave a polite nod in return, his cheeks flushed red.

"Petruccio helped me out today. Didn't you?" she said, looking down at the boy pressed to her side with fondness. He nodded quietly as she smiled at the amused Da Vinci. "He was very good at helping me with the laundry, and making the bed and mixing paint. He even helped me make cookies."

"Cookies?" Da Vinci asked, perking up.

"They're delicious!" Petruccio grinned.

"And he ate an entire batch by himself," she chuckled, sending Da Vinci a knowing look. "Sounds like someone else I know."

He gave a happy shrug and then took notice of the mess on the floor, but in very Da Vinci fashion, said nothing of it. "So, what else did my dear assistant have you do? Did she show you what we have been working on?"

She sighed in amusement as Petruccio shook his head, slowly moving from her side as Da Vinci jostled around the workshop. "She didn't? How terribly rude!" he joked. "I suppose she had you do all of her chores whilst she sat comfortably and cracked her whip?"

Rolling her eyes as Petruccio giggled at Da Vinci's jest, she gave the boy's shoulder a short squeeze and pushed him toward the man. His first steps were hesitant but as Da Vinci pulled out his model inventions, Petruccio forgot his reservations and was soon elbow to elbow with the man, happily listening to him chat.

She cleaned the mess Petruccio made, and later made them food and drink to partake while Da Vinci regaled the young boy with stories and ideas and concepts which he had never before experienced, and likely never would had he not met this entirely singular man.

Petruccio stayed with them long into the afternoon, until the sun set and there was a sharp tapping on the door. She and the boy were deep in a game of chess, sitting in the chairs by the fire, with Da Vinci playing gently on his lyre whilst at once teaching the boy how to properly play chess and supplying tips on how to defeat her, much to her displeasure. At the knock, she moved to stand and answer the door, but Da Vinci placed aside his instrument and went instead.

The heated tingle in her left hand told her that it was Ezio Auditore before Da Vinci had even reached the front door. She was glad when he did not enter; instead speaking quietly to Da Vinci for a few moments before the painter then turned and called for Petruccio, saying that it was time for him to go.

He stood, picking up his wooden eagle and a small picture she had helped him paint, and then tackled her in an enthusiastic hug, which she returned after a moment of surprise. "Will I see you tomorrow?" he asked, and she smiled and nodded as he pulled away, sitting sideways on her lap where she sat comfortably in her armchair.

He grinned. "I will practice chess with Federico. And then next time we play, I will beat you for sure!"

"Okay," she laughed, ruffling his hair. "Go on and practice. I'll see you later."

Clambering from her, he gave a wave as he trotted toward the door, his little eagle clutched in his hand. "Goodnight, Marietta!" he called.

"Goodnight, Petruccio," she smiled, waving back.

The boy beamed as he leaped up the stairs and went to the door, greeting Ezio happily. Her smile slowly faded as she watched Da Vinci bid the brothers goodnight and then close the door behind them. Goosebumps rose on her arms as the cold air that had blown through the open door crept across her skin and she turned toward the fire, shivering slightly.

The wooden chess figures gleamed in the warm firelight and she watched the flickering light across the black and white board as she listened to Da Vinci's returning footsteps, boots heavy on the floorboards. He collapsed into his armchair across the chessboard with a loud, breathy sigh, reaching over to pour himself a cup of wine, and then another for her, which he held out in offering.

She took it with a thankful nod and he returned the cork on the bottle as they settled down in the now quiet workshop.

"Well, that was a perfectly surprising visit. That young Auditore has the looks of his mother and the quick mind of his father," Da Vinci said, fondly. "I believe he will go far." He nodded, raising his cup a moment before taking a long drink.

Nodding in agreement, she drank as well. "He's a good kid."

"He should come to visit more often. He could be your assistant, Signorina, hmm?" he chuckled. "My assistant's assistant, I believe he would do well here. We could teach him of art and culture, and he could keep us company. The more the merrier."

"The more reason for you to put off your work, you mean," she said slyly.

He huffed, eyes sparkling. "I'll have you know the education of a young lord is no small matter. I would never use such a noble pursuit as an excuse to extend the deadline of my works by, say… a few years or so."

"Of course not," she snickered over the top of her cup.

Laughing, he drank, and she watched him then, her expression sobering. Looking at him now, thinking of this very moment, of their easy comradery, their banter, their simple existence with one another, the warmth and the sense of acceptance and safety she felt sitting by his fire at his side, she could not imagine that she could ever want to be without it. And yet…

Her eyes lowered and she watched the dark red liquid swirl gently in her cup, listening to the crackling fire and the gentle breathing of Leonardo Da Vinci across from her. Then she sighed softly and said, "The Auditores are leaving."

There was a short moment of silence, and she knew he held his breath as the only sound which filled the air was the fireplace and the uneven fluttering of her own heart. Then he gave a sigh, drinking his wine slowly before he nodded and looked at her with eyes sad and shining. "Yes, I believe Ezio mentioned it. I suppose that you will be leaving with them?"

Her shoulder rose slightly in a small shrug. "I suppose."

Nodding, he released a long breath, turning to stare thoughtfully into the fire. "I see." Then he drew himself up, the morose expression being swept away by a close-lipped smile and the short slapping of his hands on his knees as he turned to the chessboard between them.

Eyes sparkling, he looked at her with challenge. "Now, where were we?"

Looking at him then, she knew at once that she would miss him far more than she could yet imagine. Chuckling, she set aside her wine and sat forward with an amused and weary sigh.

"You were annihilating my knights."

* * *

They did not speak of her leaving again. Petruccio spent much of his last days in Florence with her in the workshop, and she made sure to take the time to walk him back to La Rosa Colta, in order to visit Federico, whilst carefully avoiding Claudia and Ezio as much as she was able.

She had not thought of their mother, who was named Maria, but she had once passed the woman in the hall. Tall, with long dark hair, a noble nose and deep-set eyes, ringed with black and with heavy bags beneath, Maria Auditore swept past her like a ghost, her eyes dull, her steps soft and slow, and the presence around her cold and empty.

The sight gave her shivers, and it must have shown on her face as she entered Federico's room, as he knew her thoughts at once and only nodded sadly before they sat and played cards and talked together about more pleasant things.

When the evening of her leaving arrived, Da Vinci treated it like any other. They worked, they ate, they played a game of chess in front of the fire, and then they went to bed, and all the while she committed each and every moment to memory, wondering, and a little hurt, that he could appear so unaffected by her imminent departure.

But the morning came, and it was early enough that the sun had not yet risen, and she packed up her few worldly belongings into her leather pack and closed the door of her room with a heavy heart and a lump in her throat, and she thought to go sit quietly before the fire until the Auditores came. But as she descended the stairs, she found Da Vinci sitting there in his chair and she paused on the step and watched him for a long moment, before moving down to the workshop. Leaving her pack by the door, she went and sat down in her armchair across from his, for what she supposed would be the very last time.

"So," she said to him in the dim morning, the workshop lit only by the crackling fire, the windows dark and the scones unlit. "I suppose this is goodbye, Ser Da Vinci."

"Please, Signorina," he said, rolling his head across the back of his chair to look at her properly, his blue eyes shining sadly, resignedly. "Call me Leonardo."

Her stomach clenched and her heart ached as she smiled, trying to keep her voice steady as she said with utmost sincerity. "Thank you, Leonardo. For everything. You were kind to me when you had reason to be. I don't know where I would be without you."

He nodded to her, slowly, his face gentle and warm and kind. "It has been an honour to know you. You were a fine assistant." He paused and laughed shortly, "Well. For the most part."

Flushing, she shook her head and chuckled with him.

He let out a long sigh. "I must say, I will miss you."

"And I'll miss you."

"But this is not goodbye. You must write to me, tell me of the countryside. Of the colours and the tastes and the smells." He waved a finger at her. "Keep up with your practices."

She nodded, "I will."

There was a knocking at the door, the sound echoing through the dark workshop.

Laughing sadly now, Leonardo Da Vinci reached for her hands and took them into his own, squeezing gently as they smiled at one another. "And for now, we shall say, as you so like to do, 'see you later'."

She chuckled, the sound bittersweet. "See you later, Leo."

* * *

They left Florence in the early hours of the morning, fleeing and yet not. Their steps were calm in the snowy streets, and they nodded politely to the guardsmen as they passed, in separate pairs, and walked out of the gates of the city.

A carriage awaited them there, as well as two fine horses. Federico climbed into his saddle, and she watched nervously as he grimaced in pain as he settled astride the black stallion. He noticed her stare as she handed her pack to the coachman, who secured it with the others, and he smiled reassuringly at her, looking already weary as the first sunbeams peaked over the distant hills, lighting the sky and bringing warmth and the song of waking birds to this new day. Returning this smile, she stood back to watch Ezio help his mother and sister into the carriage, and then his brother, and lastly it was her turn.

His hand was large and warm beneath hers as he took it, and their eyes, green and gold, met for a single cold breath before she stepped up and was almost lifted into the dark inside of the carriage, her careful weight seeming effortless to the young man. Their brief touch ended, and she settled upon the seat beside Petruccio, opposite Claudia and Maria, who watched on silently, Maria with eyes blank, and Claudia with eyes dark.

Though it was the right hand which Ezio Auditore touched, it was her left that tingled strongly, and she massaged her palm as she smiled tightly at Petruccio, who played with his wooden eagle, and they watched Ezio latch the carriage door closed behind them. They sat in silence, listening to the crunch of his boots as he left the carriage, and to the sound of the coachman climbing into the driver's seat above them.

Then came the flick of the reins, the sigh of the horses, and the carriage pulled away from the stables, rolling slowly past the city gates, and then there were small houses scattered every few metres, growing more and more sparse in those few cold minutes, until at last the final stretch of stone wall and wooden fencing ended and all that could be seen beyond the small windows of the carriage was dark, rolling hills, white with snow; tall trees, shrubby bushes and the long stretch of ever-brightening sky, the clouds glowing brilliantly in the morning sunlight.

Sitting back in her seat, the wood of the bench hard beneath her, even with the thin pillow covering it, she sighed, watching the mist of her breath swirl before her before sweeping out of the carriage, being left behind, along with Florence, and Leonardo, and all that she had come to know. The carriage rocked and bounced over every stone, and looking around at her companions, she knew from their dreary, morose expressions that there would be no chatter amongst them, and so she leant back her head, and, feeling Petruccio's warm body press against her, wrapped her arm around him and felt him sigh as she closed her eyes.

And she wondered what exactly it was that she had gotten herself into, and where it was she would find herself next.


	5. Family Life

"_It was one of those times you feel a sense of loss, even though you didn't have something in the first place." – Deb Caletti._

They travelled from sunrise to sunset, and very little was done but sleep and stare out of the windows. She was very good at sitting with her thoughts, but they were quiet in these strange hours within the carriage with the Auditores, one of whom apparently liked her very much, another who appeared not to be mentally present and the last of whom clearly despised her. Mostly she watched the clouds and the passing countryside. They would pass a small village, and children would run aside the carriage, calling and laughing to one another excitedly and trying to see within, but at the considerable speed they were travelling, they always quickly fell behind.

As the sun crossed the sky and darkness fell over Tuscany, the winds swirled with snow, spiralling through the night. She heard the coachman call to ask if they should stop to rest at the next tavern, and the unheard answer must have been a negative as they soon turned off the road and the carriage came to a stop by what appeared to be an abandoned barn, ragged and mouldering, but standing still.

The coachman and Ezio pulled open the barn doors, kicking aside snow and rocks, and they led the horses and the carriage within, closing the same doors behind them. As the coachman tended to the horses and Ezio inspected the large space, Federico helped them from the carriage.

Wincing as she stretched her cramped legs and aching bones, she looked about the dark barn, eyeing the few holes in the sagging roof, the dust dancing in the air and the cobwebs strung all about.

"This place is scary," Petruccio whispered, coming to stand at her side, his cold little hand slipping into hers as his wide eyes took in their dark shelter.

"Yeah," she agreed, just as quietly. "But at least we're out of the snow."

"We'll get a fire started," Federico said, coming up behind them and briefly touching her back. "Ezio, gather some wood. Claudia, fetch the blankets and what food we have."

"But where will we sleep?" Claudia asked.

"On the ground," Ezio said.

"On the ground? But it's filthy! You cannot expect us to sleep here. And what about mother?"

Federico sighed, leaning heavily upon his cane as he walked over to his agitated sister.

"Federico," she cried, clutching to his arm as he stood before her, shushing her gently. "I don't like this place. I'm frightened."

"I know. I know," he soothed, gathering her into his arms and stroking her hair gently. "But we are safe here, Claudia. Ezio will get a fire started, so it will not be so dark. Then we will eat, and sleep, and be gone before you know it. We will all be in a comfortable bed and in a warm house by this same time tomorrow, I promise you. But tonight, we must sleep here."

Burying her face into her brother's shoulder, Claudia shook her head and said, "I don't want to sleep here. I want to go home."

"I know," Federico sighed, and held her tight.

She looked away from the siblings and squeezed Petruccio's hand as he looked on, his grip on her firm. Looking around, she saw the coachman in his long dark coat and hat, untethering the horses and leading them to the far corner of the barn, where he would no doubt brush them and feed them. At the other end, she saw Ezio moving in the darkness, kicking apart old tools and boxes and gathering wood in his arms, his head down, apparently completely focussed on his task.

Maria sat still in the carriage, and she watched the older woman as she simply sat and stared blankly out of the carriage window, at nothing. And, feeling quite useless, out of place, cold, tired and almost forgotten, she stood to the side, holding Petruccio's hand and watched as Claudia pulled herself together, and the three Auditores put together their camp for the night.

* * *

A fire was indeed started, the warmth and light a most welcome sight to the cold and weary travellers. Maria was led from the carriage, the coachman from his horses, and they sat around it and spoke in quiet tones of simple things while Ezio handed out bread and fruit and wine. The coachman told his stories while she laughed and played pretend with Petruccio and his wooden eagle, and pretended not notice how Federico watched her from across the crackling fire.

And as they settled down to sleep, wrapping the few blankets they had around them, trying to find some way to find comfort lying on the cold, dusty dirt floor, the only sound then the dancing of the flames, the whistling of the winds outside the barn walls, and the gentle breaths of her travelling companions, she heard from behind her, the small voice of Claudia sigh,

"How could this have happened to us?"

She saw Federico shift where he laid near her, on his back, eyes open and staring sadly at the roof, Petruccio fast asleep in the cradle of his arm. "I don't know," he whispered.

There was a long beat of silence, before Claudia then asked, "Do you think we'll ever be able to return?"

Petruccio shifted slightly at Federico's side and the man's eyes closed at his sister's question.

"I don't know."

The sound of Claudia's gentle weeping joined the flames and the wind and the sleepless breaths of the travellers curled around the fire. And there was no more talk.

The next morning she woke in a daze, sitting with Petruccio, Claudia and Maria by the fire and watching blearily as Ezio, Federico and the coachman readied the carriage and the horses. She chewed on dry bread and sipped at the wine offered, and then she climbed back into the carriage, settled beside a similarly sleepy Petruccio, wrapped her arm around his small, heavy body, pulling her green cloak around them and just as Claudia had, fell back to sleep.

They travelled all through morning and deep into the afternoon, and all the day she dozed, trying to ignore the cold which numbed her skin, or the bruising of her back and bottom from the bumpy carriage. It took some time for her to notice that houses now speckled the hills beyond the carriage windows, growing more and more in number, with fences and frozen vineyards and snow-covered farmland now filling the view. The sight of it drew her from her lazy slumber and she sat upright, nudging Petruccio slowly awake as she stretched and watched out of the window.

"Are we there yet?" Petruccio yawned at her side.

"I think so," she answered, and then gasped sharply as the Mark flared.

The carriage lurched. She grabbed Petruccio as he was flung forward, and she heard Claudia cry out as her head struck the wall with a dull thud. There was the startled whinnying of the horses, and the coachman cried out to quieten them, and then all was silent. With wide eyes, Claudia met her alarmed and confused gaze with one of her own. All were silent, sensing that something was not right.

Releasing Petruccio, she slowly leaned forward and peered out of the window, and at once her eye was caught by the glint of the afternoon sun on a breastplate with a golden insignia in the shape of a dolphin and a cross. There were at least a half-dozen armed men, dressed in blue and gold and stood before the carriage, blocking its path.

She could see the rear of Federico's horse, standing before the carriage, and could hear the dull sound of voices but could hardly hear what was said. Massaging her hand, she sat back in her seat, stunned.

"What is it? Who is out there?" Claudia whispered.

"Men. They're blocking the way."

"Well, who are they? What do they want?"

"I don't know. They're wearing blue, with gold dolphins."

Claudia's cheeks flushed with anger, her fingers clutching her skirts. "Vieri," she snarled.

"How did he know we would be here?" Petruccio asked, his voice tight with fear.

Wrapping her arm around him and drawing him close, she looked to Claudia, who peered out the window now, her features filled with ire more than fear.

"They must have followed us," she murmured.

"Oh my god!" Claudia cried suddenly, making them jump. "They are going to fight!"

"We'll be safe in here, right?" Petruccio whimpered.

"We'll be fine," she soothed, her heart in her throat. She watched Claudia, who seemed ready to burst from her seat. "Claudia, stay away from the windows."

Heated brown eyes flashed her way, and the young girl, no more than fifteen years-old, pretty and soft cheeked, with her hair in a caul with delicate ringlets hanging about her face, shook her head and cried, "They'll be killed! We must help them."

And then Claudia Auditore flung open the carriage and threw herself out before anyone could stop her.

Swearing, her mind numb with panic, she pushed Petruccio aside and went after her. "Stay here," she commanded the boy, tumbling out of the door and closing it quickly behind her, stumbling for a moment over the snowy ground before looking about to see Claudia kicking her way through the snow toward where her brothers stood, back to back, fighting at least half a dozen men.

"Claudia!" she called, rushing quickly after the struggling girl, hardly believing that this was happening. "Claudia, stop!"

"I have to help them!"

Her teeth chattered as her feet became numb in the snow, but she drove herself forward, using Claudia's already cleared path to reach her. Lurching forward, her ears filled with the clanging of metal, the pained cries of men and the sharp scent of copper in the chilly air, she grasped Claudia's arm and pulled her back.

"Let me go!" Claudia cried, struggling violently as she tried to restrain her.

"What are you _doing?"_

Claudia struck out, lost her footing, and then they tumbled to the ground in a tangle of violent limbs and shouts.

"This is madness!" she cried as Claudia continued to fight against her, the girl's elbow finding her rib, her knee in her thigh, the heel of her palm in her shoulder. Snow crunched beneath their writhing bodies, chilling her skin and finding its way down the back of her dress, up her sleeves and filling the hood of her green cloak.

"Let me go! I have to help them!"

"You're going to get yourself killed!"

"Let me _go!"_

A vicious voice, slimy and malicious, called out above the cacophony of battle, and she felt Claudia still to hear it.

"My condolences for the loss of your father. What will happen now that there is no one left to help you?"

Lying beside her in the snow, holding tight to her small frame, she watched as Claudia's face contorted in fury, and before she could react, the girl's elbow struck her jaw and she recoiled with a cry, inadvertently releasing the young Auditore, who clambered hurriedly to her feet and stumbled away through the snow toward the fight.

Blinking at the pain, clutching her jaw and finding quickly that the surprise was greater than the injury, she drew herself up and went after her, only a few steps behind. She saw Claudia before her, bee-lining for Ezio and the short, stocky man with whom he was locked in a fierce struggle. The Mark scorched her skin, far hotter than the burning numb of the snow and more persistent than the pounding of her heart in her ears and the gasping breaths which ripped in and out of her cold lungs.

And she saw it when Claudia stumbled in the snow, her focus entirely upon the fight only a few metres away now, so that she was entirely oblivious to Vieri's man who had caught sight of her and who had turned from his place at his comrades' side where they fought the coachman and Federico. With a cold excitement in his eyes he strode forward, sword in hand, and there was no thought in her mind as she dashed forward at the very last moment.

The man's sword glinted in the afternoon light as it slashed through the air. The Mark screamed on her skin as she leapt forward, a cry on her lips as she threw herself at Claudia, curling around the girl's body and forcing her to the ground. And as they fell, the sword swung, and she heard the material of her cloak whip through the air, and felt a line of fire and ice draw across her shoulder blade and down the back of her arm.

Gasping, they hit the snow, she landing heavily beside a stunned Claudia. She stared at the young girl's face, at the snowflakes on her eyelashes and clinging to her dark hair, and then she felt the ice cold lava sear across the line on her arm and shoulder and seep down the warm skin of her back, soaking hotly into the material of her dress and it was not until she touched one trembling hand to her arm and pulled away to see the hot, red blood dripping down her fingers did she realise that the man's sword had struck her.

And then she felt the pain. In the same instant the man fell dead beside her, clutching his throat and gurgling, drowning in his own blood.

Her eyes rolled back into her head as waves swept over her, one after the other, and she lay back in the snow, feeling now the heat of the blood in contrast to the chill of her snowy bed. "Holy shit," she hissed, staring at the darkening sky, oblivious to the man's final breaths, to the sounds of the last of the fighting men falling at once by some unseen force.

She heard a man cry out in fear, followed by an unfamiliar laugh, deep and booming. Whatever sounds continued from the men nearby faded as the blinding agony turned to a hot, dull throbbing, and she heard herself groan as Claudia slowly got to her knees beside her, shaking herself.

She felt Claudia's hands on her, heard the fearful tremble in her voice. Claudia's eyes found the red smear on her hand, and saw the blood staining the snow around her shoulder. And as the sound of the surviving enemies' retreat became crystalline in her ears, the world becoming settled and real once more as she took a breath and thought to try to rise, that was the moment that Claudia screamed.

It was shrill and piercing and she recoiled, wincing and grabbing her arm as the movement ripped at her injury. She lay there a moment and watched Claudia fall back into the snow, crying near hysterically, sobs bubbling wetly from her chest. She stared in horror at the man lying dead nearby, and at the blood on her dress.

Adrenaline pumping through her, numbing all but the cold of the snow and the ice of the wound across her shoulder, she slowly got to all fours, her injured arm clutched tightly to her chest as her cloak fell around her and she saw the large slash in the material and for a long moment lamented that she would have to take the time to mend it before a wave of exhaustion swept over her and she blinked blearily at the cascade of her dark hair hanging down around her face. Breathing quietly, she stared at the glistening snow beneath her hand, pale in the darkness of the late afternoon.

_I've been stabbed. I've been stabbed, _repeated over and over in her mind, and this sounded strange and almost funny to her until the sound of Claudia's desperate sobbing reached her ears once more and more urgently, the shouts of her name from a now familiar voice.

But it was not Federico who reached her first. Ezio fell to his knees at her side, a hand gentle on her back as he swept aside her hair to look at her face. Their eyes met, her mind filling with his eyes, the gold of them sweeping like a wave over her frozen brain for just a moment before her head spun and her eyes dropped back to the cold snow.

"Marietta," he said, and it sounded so far away. "Marietta, look at me. Where are you injured?"

Hazily, she replied, waving her hand, blood dripping from the material at her elbow, falling hotly onto the snow. "I'm fine."

He swore and moved around her, lifting away her cloak to see her injured shoulder before swearing again. Federico approached, falling to his knees at a run, his breaths ragged, his eyes frantic as he curled around her, encircling her within his arms and bringing her to lean heavily against him, her shoulder against his chest. She gasped as her supporting arm gave way and she allowed him to hold her, feeling like a child cradled in his arms as he looked to his brother desperately.

"What happened? Where is she hurt?"

"Her shoulder," Ezio replied, sounding out of breath. "It's bleeding."

"How did this happen? She was supposed to be in the carriage!"

"I don't know. Claudia…"

There was a moment of silence as the men turned to their sobbing sister, who sniffed wetly and said, "I didn't mean to…! Is she going to be alright?"

Federico's voice was cold as he gathered her further into his arms. "She will be fine. Ezio, take Claudia and go check on Petruccio and Mother." Ezio nodded quickly and moved to gently help his sister to her feet, supporting her as she fell against him before crunching through the snow toward the carriage.

Federico growled as he tried to stand, hissing at the effort. Heavy footsteps approached and a man knelt at their side. She felt a large, hot hand wrap carefully around her arm and blinked her eyes open to see a large man with an impressive moustache, long dark hair and thick, bushy and stern eyebrows looming above her.

His eyes, or at least one of them, was a dark and familiar chocolate brown, while the other was clearly blind, pale and cloudy, the cause of which was no doubt the same blow which resulted also in the large jagged scar which ran from his temple to cheek. Blood speckled his face and dark red shone on his breastplate, but his face, though certainly fearsome, was gentle.

"I have her, nipote. Give her to me."

"Mario—"

"She will be fine. Let me help you."

"Alright," Federico said, reluctantly conceding his hold on her. "Be careful."

She cried out lowly as she was slowly brought to her feet and held up by a large arm around her waist and a soothing hand on her arm. "There we are," the strange, large man said in a low tenor, gentle and smooth and entirely unexpected from his appearance. "Can you stand, Signorina?"

Finding her feet, she nodded, dazedly. "I'm okay."

"I believe a doctor will be the judge of that. Let's get you inside."

Her jaw throbbed and her teeth felt loose, and her skin quivered with a strange combination of cold and heat as she trudged through the snow, leaning heavily against the strange man. The shadow of the city walls loomed above them as the sun sank behind the Tuscan hills and she shivered as she looked toward the large open gates leading into the city.

Her foot suddenly caught on something heavy. Her nostrils flared as copper bit the air and she looked down to find a man lying still in the snow, his golden breastplate glistening with blood that dripped down and stained the white of the snow around him. A wave of horror and disgust overcame her and she stumbled away into Mario, pulling at her injury but paying neither any mind as she looked further to see the dozen or so mangled and broken bodies which littered the snowy grounds.

Men in leather armour, mercenaries by the looks of them, stood or knelt by the battlefield, taking weapons and gold from the bodies and laughing to each other in victory. Nausea made her knees weak. Mario's arm tightened around her and he pulled her away with soothing words that didn't reach her ears. She had never seen so many dead.

And for what? Why had their lives been taken from them? Surely they had loved ones, families, perhaps even children. Though they had indeed been the ones to attack, and Mario's men had acted only in the Auditores' defence, surely they needn't have been killed. They might have been defeated, subdued, been taken prisoner.

No one deserved to die.

"Stop here," Mario said, bringing her to a halt by the stables. Federico was at her side at once, his eyes on her, deep and mournful as he leaned on his cane. The coachman, with a gash on his arm and a bloodied nose, led the agitated horses around the battlefield, Ezio walking at his side. As they came to a stop nearby, she could hear Claudia's cries from the carriage.

"You two," Mario barked, "help the man with the horses. And you," he said to another man as the other two nodded and went to work without question, "go and fetch the doctor. Have him meet us at the villa. Tell him there is a woman injured. That should sober him up."

Frowning at that comment, she watched the man salute before jogging toward the gates of the city.

"Federico, Ezio will need help with your sister."

"I don't think—"

"I will take care of Marietta."

Federico did not move, and seemed terribly torn as he looked at her. After a long moment, she realised that he was waiting for her command. If she said that she wanted him to stay, then he would. This power he willingly gave to her frightened her. She nodded toward the carriage, where Ezio was helping a distressed Petruccio step out, and said, "I'll be fine."

"Are you certain?"

"Yeah," she nodded, suppressing a wince.

With a heavy sigh, he nodded. Then he stepped toward her and cupped her cheek with his hand, brushing his lips against her forehead for the briefest of moments before releasing her with a lingering look so full of feeling that her heart tightened in her chest. Without another word, he turned and moved off toward his family, leaning heavily upon his cane, his pants dark with blood and melted snow, his hair unruly and his clothes a mess but his head held high.

* * *

It was not long after that they were all together and they walked toward the high walls of the city, with she supported by the man who was apparently Mario Auditore, the uncle they had come to meet.

Nigh twenty metres high, the wall encircled the town, with guard towers and a walkway connecting each, and before them sat a heavy steel gate, which appeared to be the only way in or out. It was foreboding and awe-inspiring, and, as they soon found out, was the only thing of this town in good repair.

Buildings sat abandoned and mouldering, their roofs falling in, their walls collapsed, their windows and doors boarded, and rats their only occupants. Vines which climbed the walls were shrivelled, brown and crumbling slowly to dust. The snow on the streets was black with dirt and excrement, and beneath it, the cobblestones wobbled precariously beneath their feet. Filthy streams and puddles filled ditches besides piles of rotten hay, shattered pottery and broken planks of wood. The stench of misery and shit filled the air, and the few townspeople who watched them tiredly as they shuffled past on their way either home, or to the relatively lively tavern nearby, were no less broken and dirty as the town itself.

Lanterns were lit throughout the streets, slowly as the sky above them became dark, and cast ominous shadows which filled alley-streets and doorways.

"Ezio," she heard Petruccio whisper behind her. His brother shushed him comfortingly. Claudia's sobs became subdued as she hugged herself and looked about fearfully.

The throbbing in her back began to subside as they reached a grand double-staircase, made of smooth limestone covered with black grime and muddy snow. A fountain dribbled out of the wall between the two flights, a strange arrow-shaped and intricately designed insignia sat above it and the only healthy green vines to be seen in this town crawled about the wall on either side of it. As her injury began to burn and sting, and her breaths became shallow as the sharp biting pain ebbed to the surface of her mind, she noted with some intrigue that this insignia was remarkably similar to that which decorated Ezio's belt.

They ascended the staircase, slowly, and soon came to a dark, eerie manor which resided above the town, and which was in worse shape than any other building in the vicinity. The skeleton of vines clung desperately to blackened stone and the majority of the windows were boarded over. It was three stories tall, the third looking as if it consisted of only a single room. A crumbling balcony sat above the front doors, broken lanterns hung over windows and empty flowerbeds sat upon the windowsills.

Through the creaking, unsteady doors they were swiftly herded and within they found that the interior of the mansion was in a marginally superior state. The main hall was wide, open and empty but for a large double staircase leading to the upper levels and a chandelier which hung above them in the domed roof. Behind it, on the back wall above the stairs was a beautiful, circular stained-glass window. The floor was white marble which was in dire need of a clean. Cob-webs, dirt and dust coated every inch of visible surface, and the air was thick and stale.

"Casa, dolce casa,"Mario smiled, gesturing widely. "None of you have been here since you were tiny!" Mario boomed, his huge voice echoing loudly around the high-roofed room. "So, what do you think?"

"It is most impressive, Uncle," Ezio said.

"When will the doctor arrive?" Federico asked, moving to stand at her side, his eyes upon her pale face.

"Soon, soon. Come, I will bring her to her room. The doctor will be brought to her the moment he arrives."

Now that the surprise and the shock had come and gone, she found that all which remained was the pain. It trickled across her flesh like electricity, her every nerve flaring with the spiking heat and sharp bite of it. Blood congealed and dried and stuck to the flesh of her back, and cracked as she ascended the staircase, her vision unsteady and her head growing light, her knees weak. Mario did not lose his pace even as she grew heavy against him, and he only tutted lowly as he moved smoothly down the hallway and opened a door at the far end of it.

The room was swathed in deep shades of green and brown. Heavy curtains hung from two large windows, a fine armoire stood proudly on the far wall, and several armchairs, hard and floral in design, sat around the room. A four-poster bed with a high pale headboard sat against the left wall, and it was here that she was carefully sat. Dust puffed around her, dancing in the musty air, and her immediate thought was that it could not be healthy to be here. But as she leaned forward and felt blood trickle down the skin of her back, the wound cut by a man's cruel sword burning with a cold agony, she could think no more of the dusty bed and the moulding room as her mind flared with a white pain, and the Mark on her hand thrummed incessantly in a way it never had before.

She felt hands at her shoulders and Mario's deep voice rumble, "I am going to remove your cloak now, Signorina. The doctor will arrive soon, but I have some experience in treating such injuries. If you allow it, I would like to take a look."

Blearily, she nodded, and felt her green velvet cloak unclasp and fall away.

"Your dress will need to be removed. Can you manage it?"

"I think so."

She had scarcely moved forward to stand before a familiar warmth was at her side and Federico's gentle hands were upon her.

"Let me help," he said, glancing to Ezio, who stood at the door and nodded understandingly before stepping into the hall and closing it behind him.

Something in the back of her mind thought that she should be mortified, frightened, embarrassed, as Federico Auditore slowly released the ties of her dress and slid it slowly over her shoulders, gently guiding it over her injured arm and back, but waves of blinding, throbbing pain filled her eyes with tears and made her stagger weakly against him. She hissed as the material of her chemise, wet and heavy with blood, brushed against the wound, open and weeping, as Federico let her dress fall around her hips, and then crumple to the ground.

Mario stood nearby, his eyes averted until she was sat back down, and she groaned lowly as the cool air of the room touched her injured skin. Sitting beside her on the bed, Federico curled around her, sinking one hand into her hair as his other hand grasped hers tight and his mouth pressed to her temple, whispering words of soothing as tears rolled down her cheeks and she began to cry in earnest as she fully realised the full extent of her injury, pain and fear.

Warm, careful fingers prodded her shoulder as she sobbed lowly, but she could not properly catch Mario's words to Federico as they spoke quietly over her lowered head. The next long minutes passed in a blur of tears and frightening memories, and even as the doctor arrived, staggering slightly as he entered the room, and she was carefully laid out prone upon the bed, she cried and held Federico's hand tight as the doctor, whose name was Dino Spagnelli, fussed over her before finally moving to treat her wound.

Too exhausted and pained and frightened to remember to be embarrassed by how she wept upon Federico's shoulder, she remained still and closed her eyes tight as Signor Spagnelli, who proved himself to be as good a doctor as he was a drunk, cleaned and stitched her wound. Each jab of the needle sent ice through her every nerve, each tug of the thread ripped fire across her skin. Federico's hand was warm and slightly sweaty in hers, but he did not try to pull away for even a second and her heart ached for the man who stayed even when she had left.

At last it was done, and her shoulder was wrapped in bandages as clean as she could rightly hope for, and once this was done, she was guided back into the bed and was asleep with eyes sore and red from crying, and a hand aching from holding another's so tight. And as she fell into unconsciousness, soft lips pressed against her cheek and a low voice whispered his promise to stay by her side.

She drifted awake some time later to the quiet hum of male voices from the far side of the room. A tingle from the Mark bade her remain still and quiet before she even decided that she would be so. Eyes closed, she listened to the voices of Mario, Federico and Ezio, who sat now, she supposed, in the chairs she had seen in the few moments she could remember before all was agony and tears.

"… and then Marietta, Ezio, Petruccio and I fled to _La Rosa Colta_ where Paola's girls nursed me to health. Once I was fit to walk we left Firenze and headed straight here."

"So Marietta Sanfilippo helped to save your lives?"

"Unbelievable, isn't it?"

The throbbing of her arm and back was much lesser now, and of more interest was the warmth of the Mark on her hand. She did not have to see it to know that it was glowing steadily from the skin of her palm, as it every so often did. Tendrils of heat wound up her forearm, settling within the crook of her elbow before continuing up over her shoulder, beneath her armpit, along the rise of her neck and across the plane of her back. With her face pressed against the dank and dusty pillow, her brow creased as she focused on the oddly comforting sensation as it spread slowly and surely over her spine to her injured shoulder, filling it with a soothing heat that chased away the searing cold and stinging bite. She could feel the tightness of the thread which held her damaged skin together, could feel the thin fibres of it against her raw flesh. The comforting warmth spread at last to the back of her arm, which was likewise stitched together, and there it settled and stayed, numbing the pain and giving her relief. Though she did not understand how it was, or why it was happening, she could not help but be grateful for this strange phenomenon, it being the most useful thing the Mark had ever done for her.

"Do you mean to say Giovanni never told him?"

"Told me what?"

The impatient, frustrated whine of Ezio's voice caught her ear, and she was tugged away from the slow lull of sleep as she listened to Federico's weary sigh and Mario's displeased hum.

"Father wanted to wait until he was older. He didn't believe that he was ready."

"What are you both talking about? What did Father not tell me?"

There was silence.

"You said you found documents in the secret room in your father's study. Did you take them from Alberti when he died?"

There was a heavy, aggravated huff, "Si. Here." There was the scrape of a chair against the floorboards, the gentle thwack of paper against a surface, and then the firm tapping of boots as Ezio marched to the door and left the room, closing it firmly behind him.

"You have to tell him," Federico said.

"He's _your_ brother."

"He's _your_ nephew."

They grumbled lowly to each other for a while longer about things she didn't understand. Then she heard Mario groan, his chair scraping slightly as the large man stood.

"It is late, and you have travelled far. You need your rest."

"I will stay and watch over Marietta."

"Your young contessa is safe and well. Spagnelli may be a drunk, but he is good at his work."

"All the same, I will stay. I don't want her to be alone."

"You mean that you do not want to leave her."

"It is the same thing, Uncle."

"Is it? Va bene. I will leave you then. And you must speak with Ezio tomorrow."

"_We_ must speak with him."

"Fine. We will tell him together. Goodnight, Nipote."

"Goodnight, Uncle. Sleep well."

She listened to Mario's heavy steps as he moved to the door, and she heard it open, and heard him pause there.

"Federico."

"Yes, Uncle?"

"Your father was a great man. And he was more proud of you than you could ever know."

"…Thank you."

Silence fell in the room as Mario left, closing the door softly behind him. She listened to his footsteps disappear down the hall. There was not a sound in the room for so long then that she wondered if Federico had somehow snuck out without her hearing, or if perhaps he had fallen asleep on the spot. Then she heard him sigh and stand, and he walked toward the bed, slowly, the sound of his cane tapping gently upon the floorboards loud in the echoing quiet.

She remained still, keeping her breaths slow and even as she listened as he eased himself into the chair by the bedside table, leaning the cane against the arm of the chair as he sat with a heavy sigh. The weight of his eyes was heavy on her face, and though the hairs on the back of her neck rose, the Mark did not change in the slightest in his presence.

It took all of five minutes for the heat of his gaze to dissipate, and the sound of long, slow breaths to reach her ears. Her eyes slowly slid open, and she saw him there, his long hair over his forehead as she sat slumped in the chair, his crippled leg stretched out before him, hands clasped loosely in his lap, chin tucked against his chest, his brow smooth and his full lips slightly parted in sleep. She watched him for a long moment, forcing herself to really look at him, and surprised to find herself somehow hoping for a twinge of her heart, a clenching of her stomach, a tightness in her chest.

He was beautiful to her now, from the curve of his nose, to the bow of his lip and the curl of his dark hair. He was charming and kind and caring and completely and hopelessly in love with her. And yet, as she stared at him and remembered their light and surprisingly amusing conversations in the days prior and thought of how he had looked at her, and he held her and how his lips felt pressed against her skin, she searched her heart and her mind and there was simply nothing. She cared for him, and worried for him, and felt for him, but she did not yearn for his touch, for his attention, as he so clearly did for hers. She did not want him and she did not love him. And she did not believe in the slightest that she ever would.

With a sigh of disappointment, she rolled her shoulder and winced as the stitches pulled. And she was _disappointed_. How much easier this would all be if she could simply love him as he loved her, as he loved Marietta, and how she supposed, how she _hoped _Marietta had loved him. She wondered if Marietta Sanfilippo, who had made enemies of almost every person she knew, had indeed loved him; if she had deserved even the slightest inch of the love that Federico Auditore had given her. She could not imagine it, from what little she knew of the woman. And now, because of her, because of the Mark, because of that terrifying child with the burning eyes, Marietta never could.

* * *

The sensation of being poked in the face was one that was quite unmistakeable, unique in every way. And it was so unexpected in her current context that her hand swatted away the offending appendage without a thought, and for a simple moment she was entirely convinced that she was home in her bed and it was her younger brother who prodded her so. Frowning, she grumbled his name with irritation as she was poked again and she moved to roll over and pull the cover over her head.

But she was stopped with a shock of ripping agony as the stitches holding her wounded flesh pull taut as she twisted and she jolted violently, giving a cry of pain that was muffled by the plush pillow beneath her head, waves of blinding anguish rolling over her as she straightened herself at once and stilled, clutching the feather-stuffed mattress with white knuckled fingers, her every muscle tense, her teeth sunk deep into the material of the bed, her eyes wet and her breaths coming in gasps as the heat and the ice that seared across her back subsided quickly within a soothing warmth that emanated from the Mark upon her hand which flowed over her spasming flesh like bathwater.

"Jessica," a young voice said. "Jessica."

"God," she breathed, gasping as she opened her eyes to see the child with the eyes of fire standing at her bedside, staring down at her. Those red eyes glowed in the otherwise unfathomable darkness of the room.

Slowly, she rose from the bed, pushing aside the covers and hanging her legs over the edge of the mattress, closing her eyes as the pain settled and she could rise her head and loosen her grip on her injured arm, grimacing in the darkness as her eyes adjusted to find that Federico had disappeared from his place in the armchair. In his place, the impossible child stood and watched her steadily, and as still and eerie as she was, she found it odd to think that she had only a moment ago been poking her cheek as if she were an actual child. Which it was quite obvious that she was not.

"You followed me here, did you?" she huffed.

"Come."

"Where?"

To the left, the door unlatched and slowly creaked open. Eyes of fire burned as her heart near burst in her chest.

"Follow."

And then the girl disappeared, before her very eyes.

"Jesus Christ," she swore.

Then she stood, and moving slowly, went to her bag, which had been delivered as she slept, and from it she pulled a clean dress and with careful consideration to her injuries, she eased it over her head and laced it loosely, dimly noticing that she stank of horse, sweat and her own blood, before she slipped on her shoes and warily went to the open door.

Peering out into the dimly lit hall, the light of the moon shone through the enormous round window above the staircase. And on the landing which joined the two flights of stairs, casting no shadow and with grey skin glowing ethereally in the pale moonlight, stood the girl.

Slowly, she moved down the hall, hugging herself as she kept her eyes upon the frightening child-creature, who stood still, only her head moving as she watched her inch along toward her. As she reached the stairs, for the briefest of moments, the bannister blocked her view of the child, and in that same instant, she was gone.

Freezing at the top of the stairs, she realised that she trembled with fear as she stood in the darkened hall of Mario's villa. The house was completely silent. The moonlight streaming through the large circular window reflected upon the grand chandelier which hung above the decrepit marble hall. Though filthy with cobwebs, with pieces missing and others bent, the arms which remained were nevertheless brilliant, dripping with jewels, their ends holding the carcasses of candles long since burnt out. There was no doubt that once upon a time, this hall would have been magnificent, with the chandelier glimmering above, the uncontested grand jewel.

For a moment, she forgot her fright, and instead, in her minds' eye she could so clearly see fantastic gatherings and fine balls which might have been held here. Men and women in their finery, dresses and suits from every era of time, draped in precious cloth and exorbitant jewels, dancing and laughing and gossiping and watching eagerly for any sign of untoward or unmannerly behaviour. She could see servants and stewards and a sizeable band and a chandelier glistening with diamonds and candlelight, as brilliant as the stars in the sky.

But now, the hall sat in silence, covered in a sheet of dark filth, nothing but a shell of what it once was. Its walls were bare and cold, empty stone pots filled its corners as spiders and insects made their homes in every angle, nook and cranny, while thousands of dirty echoes of careless footsteps ravaged the white marble floors.

And at once, she missed Leonardo's workshop. The smell of ink, paint, oil, and old books, the paintings and sketches of familiar things made brilliant, of animals and bodies and flowers and strange things that only Leonardo could imagine possible. Where the walls were filled with the warmth of the fire and the passion of Da Vinci's very soul.

In this house with its high domed roof, stony walls, and utter emptiness… she felt small. Mario must have been very lonely here, thought she as she slowly descended the staircase. Pausing on the last stair, her hand resting gently upon the cold bannister, she held her breath as she watched and heard the front doors of the house unlock and unlatch and swing slowly and eerily open apparently of their own will.

Swallowing hard, glancing about as if expecting some terrible monster to jump at her from the shadows, she walked quietly across the hall to the door and slowly stepped without, shivering at once at the bite of the cold air, her skin chilling and her stitched wound stinging in the frosty night.

The town was dark but for the few lanterns and torches lit around the streets. Now especially with no one walking about, the buildings appeared abandoned. An old, sickly tree stood nearby, its branches creaking menacingly as it swayed ever so slightly in the frozen air. Somewhere in the distance a bird let out a loud, haunting cry.

Peering about, she caught sight of the girl, standing at the corner of the manor, her dirty feet standing upon a long-dead garden bed, her tattered brown dress unaffected by the midnight breeze, her lank and stringy black hair completely still. And standing there then in the cold darkness of the midnight hour, the pale moon shining above her, confronted yet again by a vision that was simply impossible, she found herself suddenly frustrated to the point of defiance.

Jaw tightly set, she marched up to the girl-creature and glowered down at those scorching red eyes, rimmed with darkness.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

The child did not even flinch.

"Follow," she said, and turned and began to walk slowly along the side of the manor.

She stood her ground.

"No."

The child stopped.

"No," she repeated, her voice a quiet hiss. "No. You need to clear a few things up if you want me to go any further. It has been weeks and I have no idea what is going on. I don't even know who you are. Or what you are."

"You must follow."

"I don't _have _to do anything. You need to tell me what's going on."

"You must know. You must follow."

"No. Not until you give me some answers."

"Once you know, the answers will come."

"Know _what?"_ she demanded.

"The Mark will not tell you all. Not yet. I am not strong enough. Nor are you. It supposed to work but it doesn't. So you have to know yourself."

"You're talking about this, aren't you? You called it the Mark." Narrowing her eyes, she raised her left arm and presented the dimly glowing circle on her palm. "Did you do this to me? Why does it glow? Why am I the only one who can see it? What does it do?"

"The Mark knows all. Or it will. It is everything. But it is nothing. You belong to it. You are chosen."

Her head pounded with exasperation and she suppressed the urge to take the girl and shake her until she made sense.

"For godssake, at least tell me your name!"

The girl looked at her for a long moment, a notably guarded look crossing over her usually impassive, gaunt and grey face. As if she were thinking, analysing, contemplating, she stared, her frightening gaze unwavering, until at last the creature said,

"I am Uni."

She blinked, scarcely believing that she had received a straight answer. It was a strange name, to be certain, but then again, it was hardly likely that the child-like creature's name would be something as common to her as Sarah, Mary or Jane.

"Uni?"

The girl, Uni, nodded once.

"What are you?"

In answer, Uni's face stretched into a horrifying grin which stretched her cheeks and bared each and every one of her foul, yellowed teeth. Then she turned slowly around, took two steps into the shadow of the house and disappeared, like ashes in a breeze.

Shuddering, she hugged herself once more, much of her courage leaving her even as she was filled with a quiet satisfaction in the acquisition of something as simple as a name. Wet and rotting leaves gave way beneath her feet as she trudged carefully along the side of the house, dodging around the windows so as not to be seen, and finally slowing at the far end as the sound of voices reached her ears. It was surprising to find that once more, in so many hours, she found herself eavesdropping upon the Auditore men's conversation. Lowering into a crouch, wincing slightly as the stitches pulled, she moved to peek around the corner of the manor, wary of the bright moonlight.

"What do you mean? What are you talking about?" Ezio's voice rang out in the night. The three men stood on the city wall overlooking the Tuscan hills and snowy farmlands. She wondered what on earth they were doing awake. Though she supposed it would be hypocritical of her to say that they had no reason not to be asleep.

The men stood in a loose circle, with Federico leaning against the wall while Ezio and Mario stood nearby, each with their arms over their chests, their postures tense, and each dressed in casual pants and a warm jacket.

"Ezio," Federico said, "I know this will be hard for you to hear. It was for me as well. Father was much more than just a banker."

"Your father," Mario declared, "as his father and his father before him, was as a senior member of the Order of Assassins."

"I don't believe you." Ezio spoke her thoughts.

There was a loud sigh from Mario, who shook his head and paced with his hands upon his hips. "Of course you don't," he grumbled.

"Ezio, like it or not, it is the truth. Father was an assassin." Federico told him firmly.

"This is unreal! Inconceivable! The medicine must have gone to your head!" Ezio waved his hand as he turned and too, paced back and forth, his movements much more aggressive than his uncle's.

"Ezio…" Federico sighed.

"Even if it is true, why would he have hidden it from me? …Why did _you?" _

"Ezio there are many secrets in our family, and they are kept for good reason."

"What reason?"

"Simply, protection."

"Protection from what?" the young man demanded.

"The Order of the Knights Templar." Mario said, with a sneer.

"I've never heard of them."

"Not many have, these days," Federico said. "They are an order, founded many centuries ago, at the end of the First Crusade for the Holy Land. They were once monks, battle-trained and armoured, but they soon became much more. Two hundred years ago, King Philip of France, for fear of their rising influence, wealth and power, moved against them. The Templars were purged; arrested, driven out, massacred and excommunicated by the Pope himself.

"Their numbers abolished, their power apparently broken, the Templar Order seemed to be destroyed. But in reality, they simply went underground, hoarding the riches they had salvaged, maintaining their organisation and bent now more than ever on their true goal," he finished, his deep voice severe.

"And what was their true goal?"

"What _is_ their true goal, you mean!" Mario corrected, his voice booming. "Their goal is nothing less than world domination. And only one organisation is devoted to thwarting them—the Order of the Assassins, to which your father, your brother and I have the honour to belong."

"Uberto Alberti was a Templar, Ezio. We had no idea until he betrayed us," Federico said.

"Indeed. As are all the other's on your father's list. Those are the names of the men responsible for your father's murder," Mario said, solemnly.

"And… Vieri?"

"He is one as well, and his father Francesco and all the Pazzi clan."

Their voices fell away as she stumbled back, staring at the ground in gross, numb astonishment. Assassins. Real, living assassins. In an Order. Fighting against evil. It was inconceivable. Unbelievable. But not impossible.

"You do not know all you know. You missed much. You continue to miss much. You must _know_."

At the sound of Uni's voice, her eyes rose from the ground to seek out that haunting face.

"You do realise you make next to no sense at all?" she hissed.

"The sense will come. When you know."

"Right."

"They must not know. You must go."

For a long moment, she simply stared at the girl, before at last she nodded, took one last glance at the Auditores, the Assassins, and then crept back the way she came, along the side of the manor, through the front doors, up the stairs and back into her room, where she sat upon the bed, and tried to make sense of all that she had heard. And when sense did not come, she slept instead.

* * *

Hours later, there was a knock upon her door and a servant girl from the town, scarcely a day over thirteen, entered and nervously informed her that warm water had been prepared, should she wish to take a bath. And she very much did. But instead of being led to a dedicated bathroom as she expected to be, instead the girl stepped out to gesture to an unseen other, and soon three mercenaries came into the room, carrying with them a large wooden tub, already half-filled with water.

She sat quietly as they then came in again and again, and filled the tub with steaming waters, and then nodded politely to her as they left. The young servant girl, who failed to give her name, then stood by awkwardly and presumably waited for her to give her instruction.

"I can take it from here, thank you."

Looking quite surprised and more than a little unsure, the girl nevertheless curtsied and left, closing the door behind her.

Undressing herself and sliding into the steaming waters was possibly the most excruciating and strenuous thing she had ever done. She would take the burning numb of hanging washing in the snow, the stinging bite at the mistaken touch of a hot log in the fireplace, anything she had been through in her entire life was far easier and more comfortable than this. The stiches over her shoulder blade and across the back of her right arm tugged and strained as she sat and slowly sank beneath the warm water. Her every muscle ached, her bones creaked in protest and her skin rippled uncomfortably over her flesh. If there was ever a time that she wished to be back in her home, waking in her bed to discover this was all an elaborate night terror, it was now.

But as the waters seeped across her wounds, garish and terrible as she knew they were, she knew with no small amount of certainty that there was no escaping this. Trembling, clutching the side of the tub with snow-white knuckles, she wept silently as she rode through the pain, allowing each wave of agony to flow over her and then ebb away. And after some time, her mind became numb to the endless waves and though her body still trembled, she found that she could think once more. So she washed her face, and her hands and her skin and her hair and she watched the flames of the candles dance, throwing delicate golden light against the dark green walls.

When the water cooled, she got out and patted herself dry and dressed in clothes that did not smell like horses or sweat or blood, and at last she felt something like herself once more. But she could not ignore her shoulder, or the knowledge she had discovered last night. The Auditores were members of an order of assassins. The very thought was ridiculous, for surely such things did not exist outside of movies and books, but then again, that she was here at all, that she had a Mark which glowed upon her skin, that a girl called Uni could disappear at will and stink of death, these were all ridiculous, impossible things. And yet they were real.

This did not make her feel any better.

At last, she opened the door to her room and left it, finding the large desolate hall devoid of all life. Slowly, she wandered, observing each empty wall, each hanging cobweb, each scrabbling insect, each layer of dust and the filth which piled in the dark corners of the manor. She didn't dare touch the closed doors on the second floor, assuming and afraid that they belonged to the others, and so she moved down the staircase.

The rooms here were improperly utilised, she quickly found, with several on the main floor where she supposed there might have once been a dining hall and parlour were now filled with shelves of weapons and armour, like a personal, makeshift armoury. Another room, once clearly having been a library, or at least another sitting area, now existed as a sad husk of what it might have been. Broken chairs and other abandoned objects at the sides of the room, pushed there and forgotten long ago, and a pathetically small number of books sat upon heavy dark bookshelves beside a small desk with a chest, while in the centre of the room, most interestingly of all, stood a model of the entire town of Monteriggioni.

Further into the manor, a hallway led out into the decrepit backyard ahead, to a door which, peering inside, she believed led to the private study of their host, and on the opposite side, another small hall which opened into a large, dusty kitchen littered with dirty and broken plates, bowls and cups. Through a grit-covered window, yellowed streams of light reflected upon the dust floating heavily in the air.

"Marietta, you're awake!"

"Good morning, Petruccio," she smiled as she turned to see Claudia and Petruccio sitting at a short table made of a rich, dark wood, having cleared away the dust and discarded and dirty dishes left to rot and moulder upon its surface. In their place sat three relatively clean wooden plates, laden with an apple and an orange each. Surprisingly, each were fresh. She wondered how Mario had acquired them, as she sat down in the seat across from Claudia, who had yet to meet her eyes, and next to Petruccio, who appeared as relieved as she had ever seen him.

"Uncle Mario said that you will be alright, but I wasn't allowed to see you. Are you feeling better now?"

"I am, don't worry. The doctor patched me right up."

His large eyes looked her over, deep with concern. "Did you get bandages?"

"Yes."

"And stitches? Federico got stitches when he got stabbed."

"Yes, I remember," she nodded, with a wince. "And yes, I did get stitches."

"Does it hurt?"

"A little."

Across from her, Claudia's face pinched and she suddenly snapped, in a voice harsh and sharp, "Petruccio, stop asking so many questions. It is rude."

Blinking at the young girl, she slowly shook her head, "It's alright, I don't mind." As Petruccio shifted awkwardly and glanced at her for reassurance, she gave him a smile, but her eyes were on the girl, who still did not look her way. "How are you today, Claudia?"

Claudia shook her head. "How can you ask me that? Look at yourself," she said, glancing up briefly, before wincing, Claudia's eyes on the bruise she had left on her jaw, and turning her head away once more. "Just look at what I have done to you. How could you even speak to me?"

"Claudia…"

"It's all my fault. Why didn't I just stay in the carriage? Why did you have to come after me? I did not ask you to. If you had just let me go, none of this would have happened!"

Frowning at the agitated girl, she asked in bemusement, "You would rather I had let you go and get yourself killed?"

"I would rather you had not done anything at all!" Claudia cried, her wide brown eyes, wet with despair and confusion, on her at last. "Why are you doing this?" she demanded heatedly. "Why did you help my brothers? Why did you sacrifice yourself for me? What is _wrong_ with you?"

Speechless for a moment, she shrugged tiredly. "What would you like me to say?"

Claudia stared at her, mouth gaping, cheeks flushed and then her eyes lowered and she shook her head, glowering miserably at the table before her. "I don't know," she said. "I don't know! I wish you had never come here. I wish we had never come. I hate this place. It's filthy. How are we expected to live like this?"

With a shrug, she picked at her orange. "It's not like we have any other choice, Claudia," she chuckled dryly, glancing at Petruccio as he gave a hoarse cough. "We can't exactly go back to Firenze now. This is your uncle's home." Petruccio continued to cough. "Here, you are safe. Dirt can be cleaned, dust can be dusted and broken things can be fixed." She looked to the boy at her side, who was pale and out of breath, and trying to muffle his hoarse, raspy coughs with his hand. Reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder, she asked, "Are you okay?"

His nod did not reassure her.

"He… he has a condition," Claudia said, wide eyes on her brother now. "He becomes so weak and ill, and coughs terribly. We should not stay here. What if he worsens? This dust is not good for him."

"It's not good for anyone," she grumbled, rubbing Petruccio's arm as he regained his breath. "How could Mario let it get this bad?"

"What else?" Claudia huffed, with a distracted wave of her hand. "He is a man."

They ate a while in silence. Claudia appeared wracked with guilt, Petruccio was pretending to feed his wooden eagle a slice of apple, and she was distracted by her own thoughts, trying to ignore how her stitches tugged and itched.

"I was woken by Ezio and Federico arguing this morning, did you hear it?" Claudia spoke sometime later. "Ezio wants us to travel on to Spain, but Federico insists that we stay." She shook her head, her brow furrowed. "I hate this house, but I don't want to leave Italia. This is our country, our home. We cannot simply run away."

"Federico is the eldest," she frowned, through a mouthful of orange pips. "Ezio should listen to him, shouldn't he?"

"Yes, but…" Claudia gave a long sigh and shook her head, playing absentmindedly with what remained of her fruit. "I just don't know."

With a sympathetic smile that she was not sure the unhappy girl saw, she assured them both, "They both only want the best for you. They'll figure out what to do. It will be alright."

Claudia's eyes met hers, and somehow it seemed less reluctant than before. "Do you really think so?"

She nodded, "Yeah."

At least, she hoped so.

* * *

Once they had finished their meals, they washed and dried their plates, then stacked them upon the table, which proved to be the least filthy part of the kitchen. They considered trying to clean the piles of broken dishes and rusting mugs, or at least open the grimy window to let in the sun and some fresh air, but as she pulled on the latch, the hinge of the window collapsed to dust, and she only just caught it before it could topple out and shatter. She latched it once again and balanced it on the sill and its remaining hinge, before wiping her hands with a grimace and shaking her head at Petruccio when he snickered.

"This place is falling apart," she sighed, and then followed Claudia and her brother out of the kitchen.

Wanting to get out of the dilapidated manor, they fetched their cloaks and considered exploring the town. But the sight of the blackened streets, boarded up buildings, the smell of rotting wood and piss, along with the scratching of rats behind every corner had them keep to the gardens at the back of the house.

Though they were ankle-deep in snow, the wind was crisp and the sun was warm. Wrapping her velvet green cloak around her, she ignored the long gash in the fabric where the sword had slashed through, and smiled at Petruccio as he wandered at her side, kicking at the snow, playing with his eagle and telling how he used to play tricks on his nursemaid. Claudia stood nearby, hands clasped before her and her chin high as she watched the grey clouds pass over them in the sky, apparently lost in thought.

On the wall, at the highest point, they stood and admired the rolling hills and the bare vineyards upon them, stretching out as far as the eye could see. She and Petruccio played with his eagle and told each other stories and chatted about nonsensical, childish things, and threw some snowballs, giggling when Claudia complained. Then when their noses were numb, the wind began to bite and their stomachs rumbled, they went back into the house and gathered before the fire in the meagre library to warm up.

"I suppose we must fetch our own meal. Again," Claudia sighed as she sat in a chair nearby, tidying her hair.

"There was a girl last night who prepared my bath. I thought she worked for your uncle?"

"No, she was likely one of his mercenaries' daughters. Uncle apparently dislikes servants."

"Evidently," she said, watching a spider in its web, woven across the mantelpiece above the fire. Then she stood from the dusty sofa she had sat upon, brushed herself off and moved toward the door. "I'll go get us something to eat."

Wandering back into the kitchen, she rifled through the cupboards, jumping once or twice as a rather large spider or a screeching mouse leapt out at her, and she wondered if Mario had ever actually eaten anything in his home, for much of the plates and bowls here were covered with dust or rust, but not mould, and there seemed little to no food beyond a small crate of fruit by the door, and several old preservation jars on a shelf above the bench. She supposed that, as an assassin, he must travel a lot. It wouldn't do to be assassinating people in your own city, and she doubted that there was anyone in Monteriggioni worth assassinating in any case.

Shaking her head, her stomach sank as she thought on all she had known and seen about assassins. Most of it was likely fiction, but the idea of either being paid to, or at least contracted to kill someone, made her feel ill. What sort of person did one have to be to think that it was perfectly alright to kill another person? What sort of person could look into another's eyes and think to themselves that this person before them deserved to die? What sort of person could look into someone's eyes and drive a blade into their heart?

Apparently a person like Mario and Federico Auditore.

She simply couldn't imagine it. As she thought of Federico, of his smiling brown eyes, that funny scar on his nose, his gentle voice, she could not conjure a vision of him putting poison into a man's drink, or slashing his throat in the night, or stabbing him in the back. Her hands stilled as she stared into grimy window, seeing the green and the brown and the speckles of black on its surface as she thought on how she would react when she saw him. Would she be disgusted, angry, depressed? Would she even be able to speak to him, look at him? He was an assassin, but what did that mean? Was he a monster? A soldier? A murderer?

So, he was a killer. _They_ were killers. But what did it mean for her? What did it mean to Uni, that she needed to know this awful fact? What did it mean for her search to find her way home?

"Marietta, look what I found."

Blinking out of her thoughts, she looked to find Petruccio at her side, smiling bashfully up at her, holding cup filled with sickly blue flowers.

"Oh, they're beautiful," she smiled, her heart flooding with adoration for the boy. "Are they for me?" He nodded and she took the cup, "I love them, Petruccio. Thank you take those two plates for you and your sister? I'll join you in a moment."

He nodded, blushing furiously as she dropped a quick kiss on top of his head.

"Thank you," she told him.

Grinning, he took the plates and quickly scampered off back to the library. She watched him go with a happy sigh, then went upstairs to her room and placed the cup of flowers beside her bed.

* * *

They ate their lunch, and stayed in the warm library. Claudia and Petruccio played chess on a table in front of the windows, and for a while she watched them play, giving Petruccio a reminder or a hint every so often, before leaving them to go and study the scale model of Monteriggioni, picking at the broken buildings, wondering if she could fix them. Then she browsed the few books upon the shelves in the room, which proved to be mostly economics, law and a lot of Latin. She rolled her shoulder a little as she flicked through the pages of a less complex tome, feeling the stitches and the aching, throbbing pain and wondered how badly her skin would scar.

"The knowing will be slow but you will know."

So startled was she by Uni's sudden voice, that strange, simply girlish tone that was neither eerie or extraordinary and yet both in its plainly unremarkable sound, that she jolted and the book in her hands slipped from her grasp, falling to the floor with a thud, drawing the attention of Claudia and Petruccio. The Mark on her left palm thrummed with a strange energy, warm and uncomfortable, and she clenched her fingers into a fist, her entire body tense as she searched around for the child creature whose voice appeared to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.

Quickly, she retrieved the book from the ground and sent the siblings a smile and an uneven shrug, to which they shook their heads and returned to their game. The smile fell from her face as she placed the book on the desk nearby, and froze as a brush of cold air and the stench of mould and rot breezed by, and Uni's voice came from behind her, audible to only her ears.

"There will be moments, sometimes few and in between and other times seeming to go on forever. When there are none, you must be well enough to remain and aware enough to know."

When she turned, she was not surprised to find the room empty. Petruccio cheered from the window, having won, yet again, against his sister, who smiled secretively behind a hand raised in mock surprise. Goosebumps rose on her skin and an ominous icy cold shivered up her spine as she turned a full circle, looking for those burning red eyes. Uni's voice echoed through her mind, clear and crisp as if she stood by her side and spoke into her ear.

"Bruised, betrayed or broken, it makes no difference. You will know when it is for you to know. You have been saved for a reason. And you _will_ succeed in it."

A small, pale and dark-haired figure caught her eye in the window, and she halted on the spot, her heart pounding in her chest. Uni stood outside in the snow, staring at her through the window. Her words were hard, threatening, _promising. _The unnatural, impossible, frightening girl slowly smiled, and then turned and disappeared out of sight.

Her shoulder ached as she made her way out of the library and went to the door, knowing that Uni would not have revealed herself outside if not for a reason. All this talk of moments and knowing made her head spin. And how Uni spoke so about needing her only well and aware, but not caring whether she be injured or upset... It was all hardly comforting, but really she expected little else from the child who looked and stank of death. So long as the endpoint was her going home, she supposed she had little choice but to listen and obey.

She was momentarily thrown when the front door opened the same moment she reached out to take the door handle. A moment of awkwardness followed as she stepped out of the way in the same instant that someone pushed through. She recognised the dark hair, broad shoulders, high collar and fine cane at once.

"Hello, Federico."

"Marietta. Buon pomeriggio." A wide smile appeared on his face, though his eyes lingered at once on the rather painful-looking bruise Claudia had left on her jaw. "I am glad to see you awake. How are you feeling?"

She tried not to shrug, as she had found the movement too sharp on her shoulder when she had done so previously. "I've been better," she chuckled, but he did not take it so lightly.

His brow creasing, he gently grasped her elbow as if to steady her. "Perhaps you should rest? How is your arm? Shall I call for Signor Spagnelli?"

Shaking her head, she waved him off, ignoring how he moved closer, towering above her. "I'm fine, Federico," she assured him. "I just needed some fresh air."

"Of course. May I escort you, Signorina?"

He moved to her side, tucking her hand into the crook of his elbow before she had even the chance to answer.

Lips pursing, she nodded her head, "Of course."

Together they stepped outside, the heavy front door swinging shut behind them, and they slowly wandered to the stone wall and leant against it. She breathed in the crisp air and felt the warm afternoon sun kiss her face as she looked over the town, which appeared almost a ruin in the daylight, and ignored how Federico's eyes held steadily upon her.

Her heart, which had quickened at the sight of him, became calm as she stood at his side and knew at once that he had not suddenly become a monster in her eyes now that she knew his terrible secret. The tall, handsome man leant on the wall at her side and stared unashamedly with a content smile upon his tanned face. And he looked as he always did, and sounded as he always did. And she supposed that until the day she saw him draw his sword and kill a man in cold blood, she could not, would not, think of him as an assassin, a murderer.

"Might I say, Marietta," he said in a smooth and low tone, leaning in closer to draw her attention, "You look exceptionally beautiful today."

She blushed despite herself. "Thank you for saying so. But I can't imagine I look too well at the moment."

"You could be dressed in rags and you would still be the loveliest woman I have ever seen."

She snorted, shaking her head as she straightened and tried to play off her embarrassment. "Flatterer."

His eyes sparkled as he winked, clearly pleased to see the dark blush on her reluctant cheeks. "I only speak the truth, Signorina."

Whatever teasing or awkward reply she could have given was forgotten by the jarring clang of metal on metal echoing across the gardens. She looked about to see Ezio dressed in nothing but a loose white shirt, fitted dark pants and fine boots faced against a dirty man armed in leather as they circled one another within the training arena situated in the barren gardens at the front of the mansion. Blunted steel glinted in the sunlight, as Mario stood and watched outside of the fenced-off arena, his arms crossed over his protruding belly.

She nodded curiously their way as Ezio lunged at his opponent, and missed. "What's going on?"

Moving closer to her side, so close that she felt the heat of his body against hers, he said, "Considering our current situation, my uncle and I thought it pertinent to ensure that my brother is able to properly defend himself."

She nodded but asked, "Against whom?"

Federico sighed, a line appearing between his brows as she looked up at him.

"We have many enemies," he told her gently, his large gentle hand coming to hold her elbow. "But you need not concern yourself with such things. Only busy yourself with healing and rest. You will not be put in harm's way again, and if danger should come to our doorstep, then my uncle and all of his men will stand at my side to protect you. I only wish..."

His hand tightened on her elbow as he lowered his head, unable to meet her eyes in his shame.

She reached out and placed her hand over his on her arm, squeezing firmly as she told him, "It wasn't your fault."

He shook his head at her words. "You are in my care and you are my responsibility. I should have protected you and I didn't. It was pure luck alone which saved you from a killing blow, for that is surely what that bastard intended."

"You couldn't have known that I would get out of the carriage."

"I should have been able to trust my sister that she would not be so foolish as to make you chase her across a battlefield."

"It's not her fault, either. You shouldn't be mad at Claudia, she only wanted to help."

"She put herself in danger and she nearly got you killed!" he cried, stepping away to wipe a frustrated hand over his face before turning to grip the stone wall tightly with both hands, leaning heavily upon it, his head lowered. "If I had lost you..." he murmured, and for a long moment there was silence between them and she was struck with the force of his love for her.

And she wished to comfort him but she knew no words to do so, nor did could she move a limb to touch him and so she did nothing but watch him as he straightened and turned to her with a sigh, his eyes now gentle and his hands soft as he stood close to her and held her face.

"I do not wish to quarrel," he said in a voice low and smooth, and she only looked up at his with eyes wide as he smiled at her and pressed a delicate kiss upon her brow. "You are alive and safe, and I swear to you that this is how you shall stay. So long as you are within my reach, I will lay down my life to protect you."

Then her mind returned to her and she shook her head as she stepped out of his embrace. "But surely we can't stay here forever. Claudia told me that Ezio wishes to go to Spain. She said that you disagree."

His eyes darkened and moved to view his brother where he sparred below them. "Si, my brother has it in his mind that we need to flee. He is wrong. We are safe so long as we are here. There are many who can and will help us." He shook his head, releasing a tense breath, his large body taut, and then he looked at her.

As she saw how he looked at her, how his face and body visibly changed and relaxed at the sight of her, she felt all the worse for not loving him. His chocolate eyes softened as the corners of his mouth pinched upward and her stomach sank as Federico turned and looked at her very much like a man in love.

"Do not worry about a thing, mia cara. I will not let any harm come to you," he promised, gathering her hand into his own, his fingers tenderly massaging hers as he fixed her with a deep, sincere look that made her believe it.

"Now, I fear I must leave you," he said after a moment, with a look of regret. "There are some letters I must send."

"Of course," she nodded, smiling close-lipped at him and returning the gentle squeeze he gave her hand. "Thank you, Federico."

He beamed with a sigh, his face glowing as his eyes closed and he pressed a quick kiss to her cold fingertips. "Do not stay in the cold too long, amor. Promise me."

Face burning, she nodded, "I promise."

"I'll see you inside," he said, releasing her hand at last before taking proper hold of his cane and moving off toward the house.

She watched him go, her fingers still tingling at the memory of his lips on her skin. She could feel their imprint on her forehead, and she wondered how she should react to such things. Did she once again need to speak to him and warn him away, citing her trauma and her disinterest? Or were his actions innocent and born of a culture more affectionate and intimate than the one she had been born into? Why did she have to care for him but not love him? He was trying so hard. It should have been so easy. What was the matter with her?

Hearing the front doors close behind his retreating form, she sagged against the stone wall, frowning at the ground below her, her mind in turmoil, her head throbbing, her muscles drained. But the sound of clashing swords drew her up again and she sighed, drawing strength from within before slowly making her way to the staircase. This, she descended until she was at the level of the sparring ring, and here Mario caught sight of her and greeted her with an enthusiasm she had not expected,

"Buon giorno, Signorina Sanfilippo!" he cried, waving her over to stand beside him. "I trust you are doing well?"

She sidled up to him, smiling politely, wondering if he somehow knew of her eavesdropping the night before. "As well as can be expected, I suppose."

"Ah, that's good, that's good," he said sincerely, but distractedly. Then she jumped as he boomed, "Eh, Ezio! Eyes up, boy! Concentrate!" Snorting, he silently watched his nephew for a moment, before nodding as the young man successfully parried his opponent's blow, and turned to her. "Dino Spagnelli is a fine doctor. I have no doubt that you will be feeling better quite soon. You are in Monteriggioni's most capable hands."

"That's… good to hear," she winced, eyeing the sweat, dirt and flowers of angry bruises on Ezio's tanned skin, across his face, arms and chest.

"In any case, what can I do for you, Signorina?" Mario asked, watching his student get the tar beaten out of him.

"Well, I was—"

She jumped as Mario shouted loudly, correcting the beaten Ezio once more. The boy grunted, clambering to his feet as he raised his training sword and faced his opponent, who looked bored. Mario grumbled and shook his head at his nephew then turned his attention back to her, "You were saying?"

Quickly shaking off her shock, she cleared her throat and explained with a slight shrug, "I thought I might come and watch a while."

"Eh, it is not much to watch," Mario grumbled, leaning toward her then to whisper loudly, "He is not very good."

"_Hey!"_

Ezio turned to them, face red with anger and exertion, and in the same instant was knocked to the ground by his opponent's sharp kick to the backside. Groaning, the young man rolled over to lie on his back in the dirt, and didn't move to get back up.

Mario cackled and clapped his hands, calling to the other man to stop for the day, to which the man nodded and shrugged, looking less than bothered as he jumped the low fence around the arena and trotted off, no doubt toward the tavern in town. Mario gestured for her to follow as he entered through a small gate, which he graciously held open for her, which she walked through after a long moment's hesitation, and together they moved to stand above the defeated boy.

She shifted awkwardly and tried not to stare, but it was so odd to see him like this; chest heaving and skin flushed with heat as he lay spread-eagled on the ground. Without his intimidating robes and vicious scowl, with his eyes closed, his lips parted, his long hair in sweaty disarray, he was not the man who had come into her home, exuding a masculinity which was both powerful and threatening, he was not the man who had towered over her, intimidating and degrading in his show of physical strength, but a boy.

She remembered their last conversation, that horrible argument when he had accused her of being a traitor; after all she had done for his family. The outrage still burned, the insult still stung. And they had done nothing but ignore each other since then. But for that moment, she remembered suddenly, when she knelt in the snow, her back and arm on fire, Claudia's hysterical sobs echoing through her dizzied mind, that the first voice which called her name, and first hands upon her were Ezio's.

His golden eyes had gleamed with horror, grew wide with shock, and there had been a moment of clarity between them, as their eyes met and she knew his mind in that moment as well as she knew her own. She felt his urgency, his fear, his guilt, and he knew her surprise, her bemusement, her agony. And the memory of it frightened her.

"Ah, see how he sleeps. Like a babe," Mario cooed mockingly, laughing as golden eyes flashed opened to glare up at him but were blinded by the light of the sun. Thoughtlessly, she stepped to the side and her shadow encompassed Ezio's face, allowing him the relief his uncle was too busy teasing him to give. His eyes reopened and fixed blearily upon her face, and she flushed uncertainly, shifting on the spot as she purposely avoided his gaze.

Groaning, Ezio slowly rose to a seated position, resting heavily upon his arms as he gazed up at them, clearly exhausted and in no mood to be teased or taunted. After chuckling a moment more, Mario took pity on the boy.

"Here, nipote. Drink. If you sweat any more you will shrivel like a grape."

"Grazie, uncle," Ezio returned dryly, taking the offered bowl of water and drank it down. He then wiped his mouth on his sweaty sleeve, took Mario's offered and let himself be pulled to his, admittedly unsteady feet. "Hello, Signorina," he greeted her then with a polite nod. "I hope your stitches haven't caused you too much discomfort."

"They do itch," she admitted, joking awkwardly. "But I'd rather deal with that than walk around bleeding all over everything."

"Yes, that would be quite disagreeable," he snorted, golden eyes flashing with surprised humour which faded quickly as he eyed his uncle, who busied himself gathering Ezio's training equipment. Ezio turned to her, his dusty brown face streaked with clean lines of sweat, and she noted with interest how the dirt clung to the scarred skin on his lips in a different manner to the rest of his mouth. After a moment she started, realising that his lips were moving.

"Sorry?"

"I asked if you will be coming with us to Spain," he repeated as they wandered slowly toward the low fence encircling the ring. Here Ezio leaned heavily against the wooden rail, wiping his forehead with his sleeve before raising his face to the sky with a sigh, closing his eyes for a moment against the bright sun as the gentle breeze cooled his heated skin and ran through his hair. She watched as beads of sweat rolled lazily from the curve of his jaw, down the arc of his throat and across the dark hairs on his sternum before disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. Her stomach fluttered and she frowned.

"Um…"

"Spain? Are you still talking of moving on to Spain?" Mario's voice boomed from behind her, making her jump nearly out of her skin. "I thought your brother had brought you here to train."

Ezio frowned, lowering his face and wiping at his eyes with his other, slightly less sweaty sleeve as he looked over her head to his uncle behind her. "No. My intention is to take my family further still."

"But what about your father? What of his work?"

"He—" Ezio stopped, glancing briefly in her direction as she removed herself from between the suddenly quarrelling Auditore men. "What he was does not concern me. I only wish to keep my family safe."

"It does not _concern _you?" Mario cried, stopping himself short, breathing heavily in his outrage. "Hear me, boy, you were hardly able to hold your own against Vieri and his men. If I had not arrived when I did..." He shook his head gravely. "Leave if you must, but first learn the skills and knowledge you will need to defend yourself or you will not last a week on the road. If not for me, then for the sake of your mother, and sister and little Petruccio."

Silently, she observed as Ezio thought long and hard on his uncle's plea. She blinked as his troubled eyes met hers, and she stared as he held her gaze, wondering if he perhaps wanted her input on the matter. Then he sighed and turned away, appearing frustrated. "Alright. I'll stay."

Mario beamed and leaned forward to clap him hard on the shoulder, "Good man! You'll live to thank me yet!" Then he took up the training sword, bowl and several other blunted weapons which had been no doubt utilised during training earlier in the afternoon, turned on his heel and strode cheerfully away.

Ezio sighed heavily and she realised she had been left with the man. Clearing her throat, she made to leave but he called to stop her.

"Signorina."

Surprised, she turned and looked at him, sweaty, bruised and dirtied and looking rather uncertain as he rubbed the back of his neck. When he said nothing and did not look at her she frowned.

"Yes?"

At the sound of her voice, his face raised to hers and he stared for a long, bemusing moment, before he shook his head and stepped away. "It is nothing, never mind."

She watched the young man then, and wondered that they could be almost two years apart in age. At seventeen, she had been an entirely different person than she was now, and she had no doubt that Ezio would be an entirely different person at nineteen. Who that person would be, however, was a concern, considering all she had recently learned.

Eyeing his bruised and split knuckles, and the bruise blossoming on his brow, she wondered if the skills and knowledge Mario meant to teach Ezio truly were merely for defending himself and his family. For there was a marked difference between learning to defend oneself and learning to kill. Assassins were professional murderers. Hired for their specialised skill in death and discretion, and also apparently, at least within this reality, to protect the world from the evil of the Templar Order. But the means and the results were the same; murder.

But Ezio wasn't an assassin. And she found it difficult to believe that Federico ever had been. Mario, on the other hand, was clearly a man not to be trifled with, and their father had been simply fearsome in battle. She rubbed her forehead as she watched him stretch his legs and kick at the dirt, apparently lost in thought. What would this boy become, she wondered.

"Are you alright?" she heard herself ask, and stiffened as his head shot up and he blinked at her, clearly shocked at her question.

For a moment they stared at one another, the tension between them palpable, the wind blowing dirt gently but irritatingly into their eyes, the sun warm above them.

"I am fine," he lied.

She didn't know why she didn't just accept this and leave. Why she stood quietly and watched him waver beneath her patient gaze until he couldn't meet her eyes any longer, until his shoulders tightened and his jaw clenched and his knuckles were white as he gripped the wood of the fence. He swallowed thickly and it would have been kinder to leave him then, but she let out a quiet breath and just waited.

And at last, he deflated entirely, his shoulders slumping, his face falling, and admittedly to her surprise, he relented. "I... I am not fine. I am anything but," he chuckled bitterly with a wan smile, still not looking her way. "We have lost everything. My family is broken and confused. Federico's leg may never fully recover. Mother refuses to speak. And my father is..." His voice, which had been steadily rising in volume, suddenly quietened. "My father…" He hung his head.

She almost touched him then, almost placed a comforting hand on his sweaty, hot shoulder. Almost squeezed his arm, gave him a smile, offered a hug. But she could not get the vision of his face, cold as stone, eyes burning like hellfire as he loomed over her, made her stumble back into a chair in fright as he accused her of being the cause of his father's death, his family's tragedy. For no matter how she empathised with the boy, no matter how she could not believe he or his brother could truly ever be or become assassins, the simple truth was that she did not trust Ezio Auditore. And he had done very little to convince her otherwise.

"I'm sorry, Ezio," she said.

He looked at her then, and opened his mouth to say something. Overhead, Mario's booming voice startled them and they turned to see him above them on the upper level. "Ezio!" the man called, "I need to talk to you once you are cleaned up. Find me in my study."

"Yes, Uncle," Ezio called back.

The interruption signalled the end of their conversation, and Ezio held the gate open for her as they left the training ring, together walking up the stairs to the villa where she held the door open for him, much to his bemusement. And then they parted ways and did not speak for many days after.

* * *

Time passed slowly. Together with Claudia and Petruccio, she spent weeks cleaning and repairing windows, dusting the drapes, airing out rugs, evicting spiders, wiping down every surface and making a list of everything which needed specialist repairs or which needed to be replaced. They mopped the floors, polished the silverware, sorted and filed away loose pages, arranged the books, cleaned the chandelier and filled every empty vase with large bouquets of wildflowers.

By the time they were well into summer, the interior of the house, aside from a number of dents and ditches in the walls, was impeccable and they were quite proud of their accomplishments. The air in the house was clean and fresh, and the rooms were filled with light.

During the days they kept themselves occupied with puzzles, games and riddles, and at night they cooked and dined together, watched the stars, or read to one another. Her entire world became restricted to the Auditore Villa, the walls of their city and the Auditore family themselves, though this was not all a bad thing.

Petruccio was a healthy, growing boy, much to the relief of all, and to which Claudia declared that they should have moved the boy to the countryside years ago. He was a kind and gentle soul, very observant and quick to understand the motives and feelings of those around him, but also had a cheeky sense of humour and found delight in even the most simple aspects of life.

Meanwhile, she and Claudia entertained an unsteady relationship, not entirely friends but more than casual acquaintances, and she found she enjoyed her chats with the young girl, and believed she would even more should Claudia one day be grow out of her deeply entrenched arrogance and vanity.

Though it was the youngest two of the Auditore clan she spent the greatest amount of her time with, she also found herself spending a considerable number of hours in the company of, or in the process of trying to avoid the company of, Federico Auditore. Yet no matter where she tucked herself at any time of the day, he always somehow managed to seek her out.

Whether in the gardens, the workshop, her room, or in the darkness of the watchtowers situated along the wall, he always found her. And he seemed to enjoy her company no matter her mood. When she was quiet, moody and distracted, he would sit or walk in quiet contentment at her side. When she was found to be in a more relaxed and talkative mood, they would talk of her days working with Leonardo, and in turn he would tell stories of his childhood. And never did she expect the sense of quiet acceptance that he brought out from within her, no matter how many times it surprised her to feel it.

Her time spent with him might have been entirely pleasant if not for his persistent habit of touching her. It was all well and good when they walked for he was content to have her on his arm, but when they sat together, especially in places secluded and quiet, he grew more bold. Never inappropriate, never too forward, nothing that gave her any cause to fear or be wary of him.

He liked to hold her hand, or stroke the material of her skirt; to sit with his body pressed against her side, even better if she allowed him to put an arm around her, or rested her head upon his chest. She had never been one to welcome another's touch, even less likely so to initiate even a friendly hug or a squeeze of the shoulder. But it was nice with Federico, once she was confident he would not push it any further. It made her glad to know that he respected her, and would not ask for anything more than to be with her, at least until the day she was sure would come, when he would ask for more.

But being with Federico was much like being with Leonardo, whom she missed sorely. With him she could speak of life and abstract concepts and wonderments and his intelligent mind could answer back, not with the incredible depth and thought of Leonardo da Vinci, of course, but with the compassion and enthusiasm and warm humour of Federico Auditore.

And as the weeks went by, she stopped trying to hide from the man and soon embraced him as a friend. And with her acceptance of him came understanding, and she began to notice more. Such as the constant discomfort his injured leg caused. Though he walked now with greater strength, it was not the tall, proud and jovial stride he once had, and now that his injury had fully healed, it was clear that he could not hope for anything more than a dignified limp. His dark, carved wooden cane became an extension of him, though he was still shamed by his dependence of it. But on the truly bad days, he came to her in the evenings when the pain was too much, his chocolate eyes rimmed red and his jaw tight as she held his leg on her lap and tenderly massaged the deeply scarred tissue with her fingers, releasing tension, easing the pain, doing all she could.

During his time away from her, he kept to the workshop and its library, going through the books with greater care than she and Claudia had taken, arranging papers and organising a proper filing system as he began bookkeeping and delving into the economy and politics of the town. Some days he spent in deeply focussed silence, and others he called her to his side to read to her, or to help him tutor Petruccio in Italian, Science and Arithmetic; clearly deeply passionate in his mission to have his youngest sibling as educated as possible. As she had seen in his time spent with Leonardo, Petruccio had a natural gift for academia and progressed through his lessons quickly. And she was proud of him for it.

She spent much time walking either in company or alone, reading what books she could – interestingly enough, she understood written English as easily as she did Italian -, or sitting in the garden with Claudia, Petruccio and their mother, Maria. They were peaceful, quiet days, and they remarked to one another that sometimes it felt as if nothing terrible had happened at all.

However, as their days grew brighter, the nights grew ever darker. Once the sun was set and the city became quiet, there was little but thoughts for them to dwell on, and it was not unusual to be startled awake by Claudia's wet fury; some nights she would stumble down the stairs to find the girl violently upturning chairs, throwing books and sending weapon stands crashing to the ground. With a wet face and hoarse throat, Claudia would scream at her for not saving her father, and strike Federico for not doing more to protect them, before she would collapse into a corner, curl up and sob there until Federico scooped her into his arms and silently cried his grief with her.

Other nights were quieter, when you might walk the halls and hear the quiet sobs behind closed doors, or see any one of them sitting in the kitchen or on the balcony, staring blankly into the distance, lost in memory. But most nights she would wake to a young boy with tears wetting his cheeks, his small frame rattling with sobs as he climbed beneath the covers she opened to him, and he would hold her tight as she enclosed him in her embrace, protecting him from the world.

Her own chronic nightmares continued as they had since she had arrived in this time; forgotten terrors that woke her intermittently through the night, leaving her breathless; her skin cold with sweat. She lay there in the dark night, either alone, or with Petruccio breathing gently at her side, and stared at the roof with eyes burning with fatigue, wiggling her hands and feet to stop herself from being dragged back into the ever forgotten dream.

But she admitted to missing Leonardo's quiet observance of her, the way he looked at her and just knew how her night had been, understood how she was feeling, and had a cup of wine or a mug of warm spiced milk to make her feel better. In fact, she missed the man far more than she had bargained for, though their frequent letters exchanged to and from eased the longing to hear his voice, to sit by his side in front of the fireplace, to see firsthand his art and to be the only one privy to his most private thoughts. Though she cared for Claudia, Petruccio and Federico, she did not feel that deeper friendship, that understanding, that ease, that she had felt in the company of Leonardo da Vinci.

The months passed, however, and three of the Auditore children appeared to slowly come to terms with their father's death and their family's plight. Maria, however, remained a ghost in their mother's form, barely eating, near constantly sleeping and never speaking even a single word. Her children could bare her absent company only intermittently, and often grew visibly upset at the mere sight of her, and though they tried valiantly to help pull her out of her depression, it was impossible to do so, so they mostly let her be.

As for Ezio Auditore; the young man spent the vast majority of his time with Mario, both of whom the others rarely saw or spoke to, and though Federico had tried to speak to him of his coping, it seemed he was unwilling to discuss it. So it appeared he had shut them out just as thoroughly as his mother had. And though they were upset, there was nothing any of them could do until he decided to let them in.

* * *

On a warm summer evening, she was sat upon the cool stone bench outside the front of the villa, absorbed in her rough sketches of various characters from television shows and movies she had liked and now sorely missed. The sun was gentle on her skin, and the breeze cool as the charcoal with which she drew scratched lightly upon the parchment. All was peaceful; the only sounds the leaves rustling above and the hum of the town below.

Then behind her the front door of the villa crashed open and out stormed Mario's large frame, his dark hair streaking behind him as he marched past, growling under his breath and shaking his head, oblivious to her presence in his incensed state. Eyes wide, clutching her drawings to her chest, she watched him disappear down the stairs toward the town. Looking around, she leaned to peer through the front doors which swung ajar, and saw Federico, cane in hand, storm from the workshop, appearing as aggravated as his uncle. He disappeared in the direction of the kitchens in the same moment Ezio proved to be the last to emerge.

The young man appeared more exhausted than irate, but his frustration was clear in the set of his shoulders and the power of his stance. Carefully, he pulled the workshop door closed behind him. She watched with curiousity as he wiped a hand over his face, breathed a sigh, and then raised his golden eyes to stare straight at her. Her heart leapt to realise that he had known she was there without even having to look.

Turning around quickly, her back to the door, she arranged her sketchbook and papers, bringing the charcoal to the parchment and meaning to look occupied. But she clearly heard the front door be closed behind her, and then the fall of footsteps on stone, and a shadow fell over her and she slowly raised her face to look upon Ezio Auditore where he stood above her.

"Hello, Signorina," he greeted, his voice and indeed, entire form, tense.

"Hello," she nodded, not unaware that this was the first time they had spoken in months. There was a moment before she added, "Are you alright?"

"I am…" he trailed off. Shaking his head he gave a loud huff and then paced several steps away, and back again, shoulders tight. She watched this quietly, and then was surprised when he suddenly took a few steps more and dropped himself into the seat beside her. Searching his overwrought face, she wondered if he would speak, or simply wanted to sit and think. A flash of gold and she was struck by his weary gaze, dark eyes glimmering up at her beneath the intense curve of his brow.

"Tell me," he said, sounding strained to make this request of her. "Do you believe we should continue on to Spain, or stay and live here, as my brother and uncle wish?"

She was surprised that he would ask her such a question, but was sure not to show it. With a thoughtful sigh, she looked out into the blue sky and the dark wall which lined it, and then gave a gentle shrug as she answered him, "I think we should stay."

"Why?" he challenged immediately.

At his tone, she shuffled slightly away from him and avoided his gaze, which was fixed upon her face. "Because we're happy here," she said, and felt him bristle at her side.

"Happy?" he scoffed, with a sharp shake of his dark head. "How can you say that? Our family is in ruins, Claudia and Petruccio are miserable, my mother will not speak a word, and Federico is not the same as he once was."

He fell silent with a sharp, humourless laugh, looking away from her and resting his arms on his knees, the muscles in his back rippling with his emotion. She watched him carefully, confused as to why he would be discussing such things with her, and also as to what he might be expecting her to do or say. For a long moment there was quiet between them, but he did not make to leave, only sat there, and, having torn a weed from the gaps in the stone at his feet, busied himself tearing the soft green leaves to shreds, occasionally grumbling to himself.

She wanted to leave, or for him to leave, but his mere presence made her feel trapped. By manners. By courtesy. By sheer awkwardness.

Summoning her courage at last, she cleared her throat and, looking down at her sketchbook, said, "Everyone has been through a lot in these past months… but they're getting by," she shrugged gently and glanced toward him, where he still leaned forward on his knees. "Your family is strong, Ezio."

Throwing the remnants of the weed toward the low wall in front of them, he snapped, "I know that!"

Her brow furrowed at his abrupt tone. "Do you really think going all the way to Spain would be good for anyone? The others have only now settled in," she argued. "Claudia has taught herself how to make herself dresses, and Federico has been introducing her to economics and she's taken to it rather well. Petruccio is doing fantastic in his studies and no one can beat him at chess anymore," she said with a small smile, thinking of how proficient he had become at the game. She herself had only managed to best him once, and only because he had been distracted by Claudia's outraged shrieks at Federico, who had accidentally spilled ink on her dress.

"And Federico's been keeping himself busy with managing the town," she continued, eyes bright as she spoke of his family's achievements. "Did you see he organised for the doctor's surgery to be opened next week? And repairs on the old church have just begun and there are a dozen other projects he has in the works and it is all because of he and Claudia working together. I doubt they've ever been so close."

Ezio shook his head at her. "And what of Vieri and the Pazzis?" he demanded. "They know we are here. How long until they gain enough strength to attack us in our beds?"

"We've been here for months," she said with a sigh, but her tone was matter-of-fact. "Surely if they planned to attack us they would have done it by now. Really, Ezio," she looked at him, exasperated but feeling it urgent that he agree with her in the end. "There is no good reason for us to leave."

His low brow furrowed further, darkening his golden eyes and she watched as he wiped both hands over his face and let out a breath which shuddered throughout his body. He said nothing but made no move to leave her side.

"I'm sorry that's not what you wanted to hear," she told him.

He shook his head, wearily frustrated. "I just want to keep my family safe."

"You don't think they're safe here?"

"They would be safer in Spain," he asserted.

"And what do you plan to do if you did get to Spain?" she asked him, with genuine curiousity in her tone. "You've no money or property, nor do any of you actually speak Spanish."

"I would find work there."

"You alone couldn't earn enough to support such a large family."

"It would not be just my income," he huffed stubbornly. "Federico and the others would work, of course."

She gave a short laugh. "What, Claudia and Petruccio, as well? What do you suppose they would do?"

"They would find something. You said Claudia makes dresses. She could sell them."

"And Petruccio?"

"He could…" he trailed off, then threw up his hands. "I don't know!" he barked.

It was quiet between them for a long moment. The wind blew gently as she asked in a soft voice, "Are you sure you've thought this through?"

"Yes," he nodded, sitting up assuredly. "We should move to Spain."

It was clear that there was nothing she could say that would sway him, and so the conversation came to an end and she found herself shifting uncomfortably on the bench as Ezio appeared to have no intention of taking his leave of her. Distractedly, she took up the charcoal and started a sketch of a simple flower but she could not concentrate with the man sitting beside her. So, moving with purposeful coolness, she gathered up her things and stood from the bench, Ezio looking up at her as she did.

"Where are you going?"

At the question, her mind stumbled, and she stammered without thought, "For a walk."

"A walk? At this hour?" he asked, his eyebrows high as he clambered to his feet.

She answered this with a nod and for a moment he opened his mouth and she thought he might try and forbid her or some such nonsense, but instead he surprised her with a request, "Might I accompany you, Signorina?"

At the muted astonishment on her face, he rubbed his neck. "It is only that it is getting late, and my brother would never forgive me if he heard I let you walk the dark streets alone."

"The streets are hardly dark at this hour," she protested.

"Nevertheless, I think a walk might do me some good."

"I don't think…"

"Signorina, please." The tone of his voice silenced her objections, and for a moment their eyes met and her heart thudded in her chest as he lowered his head and gave her a small, honest smile. "It would be my honour."

There was no way out of it then, and thus she found herself walking alongside Ezio Auditore through the near empty streets of Monteriggioni, winding through the short cobblestone roads to the gates and to the outside, where she realised she had not stepped in near months.

Stepping out of the shadow of Monteriggioni, she stopped to admire the rolling green hills and the endless blue sky of the Tuscan countryside. The warm wind ran its fingers through her dark hair and caressed the lines of her jaw and collarbone. In the sunlight, beyond the gates of his responsibility, Ezio Auditore's handsome olive-toned face smoothed, his shining eyes lightened and his strong, sharply-lined body slowly relaxed.

As they walked, they fell into a surprisingly easy conversation. First about the weather, then about his family, and she was glad to see Ezio responding with enthusiasm, clearly happy to talk of the siblings he loved so deeply. They each told stories of Federico's mischievous streak, and Claudia's penchant for dramatics and in how many ways Petruccio's pranks had gotten him into trouble. They avoided talk of his parents and of all things dark and real, and she was surprised to hear herself begin to joke and banter with him, gently but more genuinely than she had since she had left Leonardo. And he lightly but respectfully teased and jested in return.

There was an underlying current of wariness between them as they interacted, but more than that, a thrill of curiousity which made her wonder if Marietta had ever spared a moment for this boy.

They broke from the path which circled the high walls of Monteriggioni and moving along the fence line separating public property from private, passing several small farmlands, pausing to pat the head of a complacent cow, and then finding themselves in awe of a deep green vineyard which rose majestically from the dirt, its vines laden heavy with grapes ripe for harvest.

And their conversation continued all the while, light and easy and of things forgotten almost as soon as they were spoken, of cows and rats, and taverns and fruit, and emotions and kings, and what it meant to be alive. They soon found themselves seated beneath an old cypress tree, watching the sun set over Tuscany. Sentences slowed and words halted as they became distracted by the blanket of stars which slowly laid itself over them, shoulders touching as they sat side by side as the world dimmed.

And she found that it had not been so terrible, to spend time talking with Ezio Auditore, and she was glad of the opportunity to see him in another light, in a way that gave her a glimpse of the young man he might have been before all of this tragedy had befallen him.

But the moment passed, as all moments must, and the world shifted. Uni stood above her, her face stretched unnaturally wide. Her yellow eyes burned in the night. Her stomach dropped as Ezio's hand slid, warm and large, over her own.

Beneath the place where their hands joined, the Mark burned.

* * *

The following morning, she woke to the sound of domestic conflict, and shook herself from slumber the same moment her door was flung open, and Petruccio ran in, dressed in only his night shift, and ran to her with a face filled with concern.

"What's going on?" she asked him as she stood from her bed and wrapped herself in a soft robe.

"Claudia and Federico are fighting."

"Fighting about what?"

They flinched as Claudia shriek ripped through the air, followed quickly by the sound of something breaking violently against a wall. Tucking Petruccio under her arm, she rushed onto the landing overlooking the main hall. There below, their forms glowing in the light of the morning sun streaming through clean windows, bouncing off white polished marble and shattering into what looked like thousands of diamonds in the reflection of the crystals hanging from the shining chandelier, she found Claudia and Federico locked in a heated match.

"My brother and Uncle Mario had a fight this morning. I heard Uncle Mario shouting, and then he left and Ezio followed him," Petruccio told her quickly, his voice betraying his distress. "They didn't come back."

Giving his shoulders a squeeze, she gave the boy a comforting smile. Barefoot and hair in disarray, she told Petruccio to go play in his room and he did so eagerly, gently closing the door behind him. Tightening the tie of her robe, she descended the staircase and faced off the quarrelling siblings.

"What is going on?" she demanded, and the fierce shouting ceased. The tension in the air was palpable as Federico stood with a glower as Claudia sneered.

"Why not ask my dear brother?" Claudia spat. "He is, after all, the one keeping secrets from we, his _family_."

Federico growled, "What is going on does not concern you, Claudia."

"How can you say that?" she shrieked. "It concerns us all!"

Claudia appeared wild in her rage, spitting and snarling at her brother who stood like stone before her.

"What is _going on," _she continued, "is that we have lost our lives, our friends and our home. What is going on is that Father is _dead._ And now Uncle Mario and Ezio are missing and _you_ will not tell me where they are!"

Federico flinched and faltered at her tone. After a long moment of staring solemnly at the ground the man sighed, defeated at last at the sight of his sister's silent tears.

"Ezio has gone with Mario to San Gimignano to fight the Pazzi," he told them. "Vieri has been harassing Uncle's forces since our arrival. He has gone to put a stop to it."

Her heart dropped, even as Claudia looked relieved and rather pleased to hear the news.

"Is he going to kill him?" she asked, visibly strained.

Federico said nothing, but his eyes answered her question.

He apologised then for waking her, offered to help her back to her room so that she might change into more appropriate attire. She barely heard him, and was silent as she climbed the stairs at his side, nodded her thanks, and then closed herself in her room.

* * *

The men did not return until late that night. They came with a company of mercenaries, dressed in dark leather, laughing and drinking and shouting. She watched them from the workshop window, her jaw clenched and her eyes hard. Their clothes were red with the blood of men, and none more so, than Ezio Auditore. He, whose white linen robes were patched with dark rust, his skin apparently unscathed but for the bandage wrapped around one hand.

She was shaking, suddenly too weak to hold the weight of the book in her trembling hands. Claudia came to her side as Federico and Petruccio ended their lesson and rushed excitedly to the door, eager to greet their kin.

"Oh, what a relief," Claudia laughed. "Thank God they returned safe. And victorious as well, it seems."

The woman at her young side did not notice her astonished and disgusted gaze, as she too turned and hurried to the door. The book bounced off the window sill with a thud and tumbled onto the ground at her feet as the world spun and seemed to crumble at the edges. Surely this was some sick joke? This mirth, this joy, this celebration at the expense of the lives of other men? Her eyes squeezed closed as she turned from the sight of the red which seemed to drip from their clothes, from their hands.

So much blood.

The world tilted and swayed as she slowly exited the workshop and stumbled heavily up the stairs. Why she was so shocked by this, she could not say. She had observed his training first-hand; had seen him practice in combat and arms, and had foolishly assumed that these skills were to defend himself and the ones he loved. She should not be so surprised. She had overheard their meeting, discovered their true allegiance; to the Assassins, whose purpose and description was in the name itself.

And yet…

How could she have imagined that he would use such abilities to seek out the end other men's lives? How could she have known that the same young man she had spoken with about life and meaning and so many pointless amusing things only the night before would this night kill another living human being? Should the thought have ever crossed her mind that he was even capable of such a thing?

She supposed now that it should have. She should have realised that these men were more than just the words they spoke; that this world was more than just a dream which had gone on for too long. This was the world she now lived in, and it was not all sunsets and green valleys and conversations by the fireside with long-dead legends. That she had not learned this following the attack which still made her shoulder ache and her skin itch was testament to her sheer stupidity. A cold shadow settled over her, seeping into the fibres of her muscles and the marrow within her bones.

People had died that night. Likely in pain and fear. And Ezio had been one of the men to do it. He had killed.

As had Mario. Federico likely had in the past.

Claudia had been glad of it, eager to get involved, so much so that she had ended up injured because of the girl's reckless passion. Little Petruccio was young and impressionable, but old enough that he should know that violence and killing was never right.

On the landing she staggered and grasped the solid bannister, leaning heavily upon it as she realised that all whom she cared for in this world was in fact a stranger to her, with opinions and perspectives which contradicted her morals, values and beliefs in ways that could not be ignored. Squeezing her eyes shut, her nose burned, her lips trembled and her heart broke, and she felt the acute pain of losing every friend she had, all at once.

The moment passed, she took a deep, bracing breath, and then she let her heart turn to stone.

She heard the Auditores enter, the cold hall filling with their traitorous tones. And for the second time that day, she closed herself in her room. This time, she did not come back out.

* * *

That night, she dreamed.

She had put out the candles and hidden beneath the soft, rich covers of her bed and had fallen quickly asleep. Too quickly. And her eyes opened and she did not feel quite like she was asleep, nor very much like she was awake, but more somewhere in between. It was an uncomfortable sensation, like the moment your stomach begins to drop at the top of a very tall rollercoaster, and her skin prickled like it was not quite sure what it felt, and her eyes could not focus in one single place. She felt in pieces and yet together, more like something was missing but she wasn't sure what.

And then Uni was there, so unnaturally still beside her that it was almost impossible for her to look at the strange child for more than a moment. There was the sound of a lock clicking into place, and she looked about and suddenly recognised her surroundings. She was in the villa, standing in the corridor outside of the door to Mario's study. But it was too dark here, even with the candles burning in the sconces. The light did not seem to touch her, could not quite reach her eyes. Uni moved from her side then, not floating, but not walking either, to the locked door, which she pushed open with the slightest motion.

Her fiery eyes fixed upon her, and she understood the wordless order and obeyed without a thought. Moving into the study, she heard the sound of voices echoing with increasing volume, the scene shifting a moment before clicking into place, and she saw before her Mario's study, with the grand old desk in the centre of the room, situated before a row of dark shelves full of books which covered the back wall.

Above, a delicate chandelier hung, bathing the room in what might have been warm light, but in this dream, seemed to have a blue-greyish tinge. And in this vision of the study, she saw Mario seated behind the desk, Federico leaning upon it, his cane at his side, and Ezio stood before them, his arms crossed over his chest, dressed now in casual clothing, his stained robes replaced by clean linen, his skin washed and his hand freshly bandaged.

"...powerful men in all of Europe and Master of the Templar Order." Mario's deep baritone rang in her ears, reverberating for a moment longer, an uncomfortable echo which made her teeth ache. It settled as Ezio's voice joined it, and the sound of their conversation found an unsteady balance in her mind.

"Which makes him responsible for the murder of our father."

Frowning in confusion, she looked about for Uni, but the girl was gone, and the heavy wooden door was closed behind her. She moved toward Federico, each movement like walking through water, but the attention of the men did not shift to her; they could not see that she was amongst them. It was a dream, she supposed. It was not uncommon. And yet, this did not feel like a dream, and Uni's presence, though brief as it had been, quickly convinced her that it indeed, was not.

"Yes," Mario answered, "and he will not have forgotten you. He will not have taken kindly to our siege upon San Gimignano, nor to your part in capturing it. He will have you killed the moment he gets the chance."

"Then I must stand against him if we wish to be free..."

"And what of Marietta? Her action in saving myself and Petruccio was surely unforgettable," Federico proposed. "Do you suppose that she too is in danger?"

"Of that I cannot be certain," Mario shrugged. "But she is safe here, nipote. Now, look, I have added the names you told me of in San Gimignano. It is time for you to begin your work."

Ezio's voice was quiet and dark, "Every Templar named shall fall to my blade." Ice ran through her blood at the sound of it, and the dream wavered unsteadily before settling once again.

"Begin with Francesco de Pazzi," Federico suggested, effectively severing every strand of trust and affection she held for him. "He should share the fate of his son."

"Si. And he shall. I will make for Florence."

"A sensible next step. No doubt he intends evil for the city," Mario agreed. "But first, recognise these?"

He gestured behind them, and she turned, only to wince at the blinding gold light which assaulted her vision. Squinting, she waited a moment, and the light dimmed to a steady glow and she found herself gazing at the opposite wall, upon which hung a dozen pieces of old parchment. Her heart thudded at the sight and the Mark tingled fiercely.

"Other codex pages," Ezio said, as the three men came to stand in a line before the wall.

"Yes, our father managed to decode these before he..." Federico trailed off.

"And here is the one Giovanni left you," Mario produced another page, and moved to add it to the wall, "which your clever friend managed to decode."

"Leonardo da Vinci."

"The painter?" Federico asked in amazement.

"Si. The same man Marietta spends so many hours writing letters to," Ezio jeered. Federico make a low sound of displeasure.

"Enough, you two," Mario rolled his eyes, stepping back and pointing as he continued. "Look. Do you see how the words cross from one page to the next and how the symbols join?"

"There is something underneath it," Ezio said with wonder. "Some kind of map. Where is it supposed to lead?"

"Your father and I managed to make out bits of a prophecy scrawled across these pages," Mario explained. "It was written by an Assassin like us, who long ago held a 'Piece of Eden'. His name was Altair."

A sudden flare of heat screamed up her arm, and the vision scrambled and became completely disjointed in a mess of grey-blue and gold as agony such as she had never felt seared across her left palm. Curling in on herself, she cried out silently as she held her hand in a tight fist, pressing it against her stomach in an attempt to shield it from the invisible assault. Eyes burning, head thrumming, she gasped as the pain subsided like a tide, slowly throbbing and ebbing away.

"He spoke of something ancient and powerful hidden beneath the land."

"What is it?"

Another spike of hot agony tore through her, this time searing across her hand and up the muscles in her arm, winding like vines of fire and ice, tearing through her skin, burning all it touched. Her knees buckled beneath her as she gasped for air she could not taste with lungs that could not breathe. The pain blinded her, as dark spots flooded her fading vision and her head swam heavily on her shoulders. The sound of their voices echoed and repeated and called over one another, layering and falling and fading as she felt herself be drawn away, the study coming to pieces before her eyes.

"What indeed..."

She awoke with a start, and for a brief moment was relieved of it. Then there was torment.

Her left palm burned. Shakily, she gazed down at the skin and saw that the Mark was glowing deeply. The light seared into her eyes and she pulled her hand into a fist, holding it away from her. The muscles of her arm shook as a terrible ache throbbed through the bone to her shoulder where it spread along her collarbone and across her ribs. The agony extended up her neck to the base of her skull, through her jaw and into the nerve of every tooth. It spread across her cheekbones and delved into the depths of her eye sockets. It encircled her spine and seeped within her pelvis then down her legs. She was sure her bones were splitting; the marrow was leaking into muscle and organs splintered with bone. Her lungs constricted around her heart as her stomach lurched and bile flooded over her tongue.

Behind her closed eyes, images flashed in nauseating sequence. Two people. Naked. Bathed in silver light. Running toward a building. Leaping through the air. Escaping. Something clutched in their hands.

"A Piece of Eden." Uni stood over her. Her face split into two.

Brilliant streams of light. A ball of gold. A map.

"_Stop_!" she cried at last, unable to take anymore.

With a final heave of emotion, the visions fell away and the pain ceased. With a breathless check, she found she was alone.

Exhausted and thoroughly terrified, she curled into a ball, trembling and weak, until she at last fell into a dreamless slumber.

* * *

The stench of alcohol hung in the air as the town celebrated the twenty-first birthday of their Lord's oldest nephew.

Drunk and rowdy, their festivities filled the villa, a place which had once been cold and empty, which now glowed like a beacon of warmth and pride atop the hill overlooking Monteriggioni. Dull perfumes and the sharp tang of bodily odours mixed with the alcoholic scents, though none seemed to notice or mind. Kegs of ale and bottles of wine were perched upon a table which had been brought from the workshop, available for all to partake, which they did so eagerly.

As she watched, dressed in her finest garb of green and silver, a man stumbled into another, and red wine splashed across the white marble floor of the hall. Wincing at the sight, she took a sip from the cup in her hand, and turned away. She stood amongst the townsfolk, in the centre of the room below the brilliantly burning chandelier, and yet no one noticed her as she finished her fourth cup of wine. She was within and without, hidden in plain sight. As she willed it to be.

Things had not been good these last weeks. Not good at all, and both she and the Auditores knew it. She had withdrawn from the family, had built walls and was now settled behind them, ashamed and angry and incredibly hurt at her own naivety and at what she considered their betrayal of all that was good and right in the world. Whilst their routines had continued, and she spoke and ate and sat with them, things were very clearly and irreparably changed.

The Auditores were murderers. They had killed, and planned to kill again. She would have no part of this. Something had to be done.

A headache pounded behind her eyes as the hall boomed with drunken talk and laughter, and she winced, sipping at her drink and moving only slightly unsteadily toward the front doors which had been thrown open, the party spilling out into the gardens.

The night was warm and the air was still. Mosquitoes buzzed around the sconces and every few moments a partygoer would slap at some exposed skin and swear lowly. But the blanket of stars twinkled above and it was to these she drew her eyes as she slowly moved toward the low stone wall which encircled the villa. This she followed to a dark corner of the garden where the sounds of the party were muffled and she was alone.

Her head floated left to right on her shoulders as she continued to partake of the sweet alcohol in her cup, gazing up at the stars and deeply lost in thought. A letter had arrived this morning from Leonardo Da Vinci, her good and sorely missed friend, who wrote of a booming business and his ever-expanding popularity, and how he was considering hiring an assistant to help with the demanding workload and the pesky customers which inevitably came with it. Plans began to bloom in her mind, muted and uncertain but steadily taking root.

"You are not enjoying yourself, Signorina?"

Startled, she turned to find Mario approaching her, his footsteps near silent and his hulking form intimidating and instantly unwelcome in this dark, secluded space.

"On the contrary, Ser," she smiled, raising her glass for him to see it still holding drink. Her eyes were guarded and her body taut and uncomfortable as she took a careful sip and waited for him to announce his reason for interrupting her in this private place. After a moment of heavy silence, she turned back to rest her elbows on the wall and gaze out at the dark countryside and the stars shining above it, swaying only slightly.

Fingering her drink, she heard the brush of material and the slightest crunch of dirt beneath a boot, and then he was beside her, resting one hand on the low wall as he stared into the night.

"You are unhappy here."

Watching him from the corner of her eyes, she took a drink in the place of an answer.

With a discontented noise at her silence, he continued. "When we returned from our victory at San Gimignano, you closed your door and did not come out. At first it was believed that the blood had frightened you and the fear drove you to isolation. But it wasn't fear, was it, Signorina?"

Her eyes fell as she remembered those days, now weeks past. With a gentle, thoughtful frown she listened calmly as he went on his words becoming impassioned.

"No. It was anger. It was outrage. It was fury. Your heart is not that of other women. It is not weakened at the thought of bloodshed, but hardened against it. You look at us and you see criminals. Murderers, even!"

She cleared her throat, straightening against the wall to take a long drink of her nearly empty cup. Avoiding Mario's gaze, she picked at the wall and watched her fingers do so.

In her periphery, she saw him shake his head angrily as he gave a gruff huff, glaring at her.

"With all you have seen done and all you have suffered, can you truly not see that violence can only be met with violence? Can only be stopped with violence? Do you think if we had not gone that day to kill Vieri and his men that he would ever have stopped killing my men, harassing my people and threatening your very life?"

Her silence frustrated him. She knew this and he made it quite obvious in his manner, yet she refused to speak as he tried to justify his actions, as he tried to justify the taking of human lives. Despite her passivity, he forged on, moving closer to where she stood, looming over her as he spoke. She smelled leather and body odour and the tang of grease and blood, and it sickened her.

"My nephews care for you deeply, Signorina. And you owe them much. All that is asked of you is to not hate them for what they must do. Show them the gratitude they deserve for fighting for your life and your freedom. Give them the respect they deserve for fighting for the ones they love, and for keeping them, and you, safe."

His voice was solid, firm and patriarchal and as it faded and a gentle wind blew and a bird called lowly as it flew overhead, momentarily blocking out the light of the moon, she downed the rest of her drink before slamming it down on the wall and finally meeting Mario's eye.

"Literally, go fuck yourself," she said, in English, before she gathered her skirts and swept past him, storming unsteadily back toward the light and the party and the people.

Entering the villa, she slunk through the crowd toward the stairs, intending to retire to her room for the night.

"Signorina, where are you off to?"

A large warm hand encircled her arm and stopped her in her stride. She tensed, turning toward the man, ready to lash out and give him a what-for.

The man smiled at her, olive-skinned and golden eyed, his dark hair tied with a red ribbon, and dressed in a fine blue tunic.

"Ezio," she sighed, noticing that he continued to hold her arm. "I'm tired; I think I'll go lie down for a while."

"But the night is still so young!"

"Yes, but I'm tired."

As she tried to move away, he reached out with a swift but gentle hand; took hold of her wrist and in one quick movement spun her into him, holding her close to his warm chest as she squealed in surprise, finding her face suddenly pressed to Ezio's neck, before he released her with a chuckle, golden eyes twinkling as he held onto her hand.

"You're not funny," she told him; face burning fiercely as she retrieved her hand.

"Of course I am," he said, sweeping around to block her way as she once again turned to make for the staircase. "Come now, we haven't spoken in ages. Why don't you stay and talk to me?"

"I told you, I'm tired."

"Is this about what my uncle said?"

"Were you listening?"

"Perhaps."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"His words were harsh, but he meant no offence, Signorina."

"And I suppose you agree with him on his opinions on certain matters?"

"This is not a time for such talk. Just know that for all that he said, he was certainly right on one matter; you are cared for and protected by all who live here. And I truly hope that one day you will understand and accept that what we do is because we must. And that you won't hate us for it."

"I don't hate you, Ezio."

He paused, studying her. "...Are you alright, Signorina?"

"I…I'm fine."

"…Marietta."

"I'm fine. Goodnight, Ezio."

Locking her bedroom door behind her, she leaned against it and gave a long, deep sigh, pressing her hand to her forehead, willing the room to stop spinning; willing the tears to not fall. Doing what she could to steel her mind, she drew a steadying breath, moved from the door to the drawers and began to pack.

* * *

Claudia found her just as she had snapped close the latch on her bag. Both women froze for a moment. Claudia's lips were parted and her brow gently furrowed in confusion. She took a slow step toward her.

"Marietta… what is this?"

"I am leaving, Claudia."

"What? Why? Where?"

"To Firenze, to live with Leonardo Da Vinci."

"I don't understand, why are you leaving us?"

"This isn't… this isn't the life I thought I wanted. It's time for me to go. I don't belong here."

"Of course you belong here! This is our home, your home! You cannot just leave us so unexpectedly! Where is my brother, has he done something to put this foolish notion in your mind?"

"Claudia—"

She stormed from the bedroom, nearly flinging herself over the bannister as she hollered into the hall, "Federico! Federico! Come here, you bastard! Federico!"

"Jesus fuckin'…" she muttered, picking up her bag and moving from the room, past Claudia who continued to call for her brother, and started down the stairs just as Federico and Ezio appeared from the direction of the kitchens, and Petruccio, bleary eyed and in his pyjamas, too short now on his tall and lanky teenaged body, emerged from his room and came to peer over the balcony in tired curiousity.

She stopped with a huff, halfway down the central staircase, feeling exposed and surrounded as she was flanked on either side by Claudia and Petruccio, and was now facing off with Federico and Ezio, who stood at the bottom of the stairs quickly observing her travelling dress and boots and the bag which hung on her arm.

Ezio's eyes widened, shocked, "Signorina…?"

Federico however, had white knuckles on his cane as, with a tight jaw and a body visibly trembling with emotion he fixed dark, heated eyes on her. "Where will you go?" he demanded through gritted teeth.

"To Firenze."

"To the painter?"

"Yes."

"Why now? Why leave today?"

"It is time for me to go."

"It's not safe for you to leave."

"I don't belong here."

"You belong with my family, with our family."

"No, I don't."

"How can you say such things?"

"Federico," Ezio said, but his soothing hand was slapped away.

"How can you wish to leave us? You promised. You promised to let me love and care for you and to keep you safe, and how can I if you leave to a place where I cannot follow?"

"I neither gave nor accepted any promises, Ser. My time here is done. I am forever grateful for your family's protection and hospitality, but I am leaving. There is nothing you can say or do that will change my mind."

"Then marry me."

"What?"

Achingly, painfully, Federico got to one knee at the bottom of the stairs and looked up at her with glittering eyes, one arm outstretched and trembling slightly as it held tight to his cane.

"I have loved you since the very moment I saw you so many years ago. You are as beautiful and captivating to me then as you are now, and I promise you that I will cherish and care and provide for you every minute of every day for the rest of our lives. Only stay with me. Only marry me. Marry me… Please…"

"I'm sorry," she said, ducking her head and hurrying down the stairs, past the kneeling man and his outraged brother, and without another word, she burst out the villa doors, hurried down the many steps and was only a few minutes later climbing onto a passing carriage, sitting with her face buried into her luggage where it rested on her lap, ignoring Uni where she sat beside her, her very aura burning with discontent. The Mark burned into her left palm, the pain of it throbbing up her arm. She ignored that too.

/

/

_Alright, that's the end of what past-me rewrote. See the 2015 version for more story. Hope you enjoyed :)  
_


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